The hand of power

By Edgar Wallace

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Title: The hand of power

Author: Edgar Wallace


        
Release date: April 20, 2026 [eBook #78508]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Mystery League, Inc, 1930

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78508

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAND OF POWER ***




 THE
 HAND OF POWER

 BY
 EDGAR WALLACE




 THE MYSTERY LEAGUE, INC.
 PUBLISHERS 1930 NEW YORK




 [COPYRIGHT]

 COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY
 THE MYSTERY LEAGUE, Inc.
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 FIRST EDITION




 CONTENTS

 I. The Men of the Moor
 II. Dr. Laffin Commands
 III. Pawter’s Services
 IV. Captain Harvey Hale
 V. Benson
 VI. Betty Consents
 VII. At Thames Head
 VIII. The Proud Sons
 IX. No-Arrest Bullott
 X. The Desk Store
 XI. Mr. Lambert Stone
 XII. The Man from Nowhere
 XIII. The Message
 XIV. The Locked Room
 XV. Getting in
 XVI. The Novitiates
 XVII. Brother John
 XVIII. A Shot in the Street
 XIX. The Man in Charge
 XX. The Initiation
 XXI. Jenny Hamshaw
 XXII. Dr. Laffin’s Offer
 XXIII. Gone!
 XXIV. The Dream
 XXV. Betty Does Not Remember
 XXVI. A Talk with Dr. Laffin
 XXVII. Ragousa Talk
 XXVIII. The Seen Prior
 XXIX. A Strange Occurrence
 XXX. Dope
 XXXI. In Epping Forest
 XXXII. Toby Marsh Goes to a Party
 XXXIII. The Listener in the Chimney
 XXXIV. Mr. Pawter Explains
 XXXV. The Priory
 XXXVI. The Grand Prior Shows His Hand
 XXXVII. A Trip to Devon
 XXXVIII. A Man and a Maid
 XXXIX. The Test
 XL. The Woman with the Jug
 XLI. Florette Complains
 XLII. An Additional Passenger
 XLIII. On Board the “Escorial”
 XLIV. Betty’s Fear
 XLV. “Sir John and Lady Wilford”
 XLVI. The Blue Bottle
 XLVII. An Attack in the Night
 XLVIII. A Radio from New York
 XLIX. Bullott Explains
 L. The Evening of the Ball
 LI. The Control
 LII. Changed Conditions
 LIII. Bill Has a Plan
 LIV. In the Wireless House
 LV. The “Thomas Inland”
 LVI. Harvey Hale and Laffin
 LVII. Warships
 LVIII. Toward the Fog
 LIX. The Siren
 LX. The Man in Control
 LXI. Bullott Makes an Arrest
 LXII. Bullott’s Story
 Endnotes




 THE HAND
 OF POWER

 CHAPTER I.
 THE MEN OF THE MOOR

A gale of wind and rain swept across the barren face of Dartmoor,
that ancient desolation. The howl and shriek of it came to Betty Carew
above the rattle and roar of the motor engine as the old car grunted
and groaned up the steep hill.

The lights of Tavistock had long since disappeared. Princetown was
three miles beyond the crest of the hill. About them was an infinite
loneliness, and the sobbing of wind that drove the needle-sharp sleet
into their faces. The yellow-faced old man who drove did not speak--he
had not spoken since they left Tavistock; would not willingly break
his silence before they reached Exeter--or after.

The car laboured up the twisting road, skidding and sliding from left
to right, and with every lurch the girl’s heart came into her mouth.

At the top of the hill the full force of the gale caught them and all
but brought the car to a stand-still. Rain smacked viciously against
the screen, whipped under the lowered brim of her hat, thrashing her
face till it smarted intolerably.

“Don’t you think we’d be wise if we went back to Tavistock?”

She had to raise her voice to a scream before he heard her.

“No!”

The answer came like a pistol shot, and she said no more.

Dr. Laffin had bought the car cheap at a sale of Army derelicts--it
had been old before the requisitions of war had called it for military
service. It served him well enough; gave him the illusion of economy
at a moment when economy was necessary. He had a small starveling
property on the edge of the moor, a farm where a ploughshare touched
rock every rood or so. His tenant was a man who complained regularly
and paid his rent occasionally. The further illusion of proprietorship
almost compensated Dr. Laffin for other deficiencies.

West of Princetown, the wind slackened and normal speech was possible.

“You won’t try to get beyond Exeter to-night?” asked the girl
nervously. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that he would
continue the journey to London.

“I don’t know.” His tone was uncompromising.

Betty could have said something unpleasant, but wisely held her
tongue. They skirted the prison fields; the lights of the car showed
momentarily the ugly arch before the jail, and a muffled figure
leaning upon a rifle beyond the gate; and in another minute they had
passed through Princetown and were facing the winds of the open moor.

In spite of her oilskin coat, the girl was soaked through; she was
cold and stiff and hungry, and for the first time in her life thought
longingly of the grim house in Camden Road. Then, to her surprise, the
man spoke.

“This is better than play-acting… living reality… there are spirits in
this place… I can feel them. Hail thou!”

His hand came off the driving wheel and was raised in stiff salute.
Betty, shivering with terror, shut her eyes.

Play-acting! If that wretched road engagement hadn’t come to an abrupt
end--at Tavistock of all places in the world, and, by a hideous
coincidence, at the very moment Joshua Laffin was making a half-yearly
visit to his “property”!

“There are evil things chained to the dark!” His voice prim,
emotionless, pierced the whine and flurry of gale and engine. “Terrors
undreamt of by shallow minds… what of the forty million spirits of
Atlantis?”

She put her hands to her ears, and the next moment could have shrieked
her fears. Ahead of them gleamed a red spot of light in the very
centre of the road. It was like a fiery eye glowering from some
cyclopean socket.

The car jangled and shuddered to a standstill before she saw the
figure with the red lantern.

The lights of the car were poor, aged oil-burning lamps, and the man
who had swung the lantern showed dimly. He seemed to be dressed in a
long, close-fitting gown like the habit of a monk.… Her mouth opened
wide in wonder and fear--the head was shrouded in a cowl that covered
the face--and she saw only a gleam of eyes behind narrow slits cut in
the cloth.

“May I speak to you, please?” said the cowled man, and now she saw
that he had a companion, a sombre companion similarly attired.

“What is it?… What is the meaning of this foolery?” grated Joshua
Laffin.

The man walked to his side and said something in a tone so low that
Betty could not hear a word.

“Huh… well, I am…”

Laffin’s voice sank to a rumble, and for a minute or two they carried
on a conversation in an undertone.

“I’ll draw the car up by the side of the road,” said Dr. Laffin, and,
twisting his head toward the girl: “You’ll wait here.”

“Here!” she said, aghast. “In the middle of Dartmoor… alone!”

“This gentleman will look after you--there is no occasion for panic. I
would not leave you if there were.”

He indicated the shadowy form of the second “monk” standing just
outside the spread of the lamp’s rays.

Betty made no answer, but watched Laffin and his sinister companion
till they disappeared in the darkness.

The second man did not stir. Vainly she tried to keep her eyes away
from the cowled face.

Laffin had been gone a quarter of an hour, when there came a sound
that added to the fearfulness of the night. The deep boom of a bell…
She tried to locate it and failed.

_Dong!_

Again, and then…

The faint sound of voices--deep-chested voices of men chanting.

_Dong!_

She was trembling in every limb. What did all this portend? She looked
around nervously. The man still stood where he had been,
watching--what? She had a feeling that he was listening too, his ears
strained--for what?

An hour passed before she heard feet on the hard road and somebody
saying “Good-night.” It was the doctor and he was returning alone: he
must have left his guide somewhere in the darkness. When she looked,
the second man had disappeared.

Laffin cranked up his car and climbed in.

“Who were they?” she asked.

He did not reply, and the car jerked on its way. She had added one
more to the many questions he never answered.

Fifteen months later he offered a solution to the riddle of the moor:
but this she did not know.




 CHAPTER II.
 DR. LAFFIN COMMANDS

Betty Carew listened, aghast. In that gloomy, dusty room, ill-lit,
badly ventilated, redolent of musty paper and ancient leather
bindings, she had heard many fantastic views and commands expressed by
Dr. Joshua Laffin, but never one so bizarre as this.

“I don’t quite understand.” She was speaking no more than the truth.
“Why do you wish me to do this?”

He took a pinch of snuff from a tortoiseshell box, replaced the box on
the table and leant back in his high-backed chair, his dark eyes fixed
on hers. He wore his customary black, and in the candle-light and
against the dark background he was just a long, yellow face and a pair
of lined, thin hands that moved restlessly.

“I give you neither ‘why’ nor ‘wherefore’,” he said, in a queer voice
that had something of the softer tones of an owl in it; the whoo-ing
of a man who habitually spoke through lips that were pursed as if to
whistle. “I command. You know me, Elizabeth. I will have my way.
Especially now. One has had disappointments; certain plans have
miscarried. In this last matter there must be no hitch. As you know, I
am but the servant of others--not of this plane.”

He waved his hand to the shadowy corners of the room, and the girl
experienced all the old terror that this gloomy house had inspired in
her during the fourteen years she had been an inmate.

“Here is Kama, the tamed Nemesis, vitalised by my genius. Here the
great Manasuputra, divine force of beneficence,” he said. “You, who
might have become acquainted with these mysteries, preferred the
transient pleasure of sense.”

An old story and an old reproach that left her unperturbed.

“My immeasurable superiority to the world,” he went on, “and,
therefore, to its opinions, should have helped you to overcome any
stupid qualms. You are vain, you are conceited, just as all girls with
a title to prettiness are vain and conceited. Your ego is distorted.
Contact with me, which would have humbled most people, has merely
puffed you up with pride. I am not even flattered. I would wish that
my greatness abashed you. But no! Charity child, workhouse child,
though no decent man or woman could know the truth about you without
shrinking in horror, you persist in opposing your wishes, your ‘whys’
to my instructions. Gutter brat, gallows child, scum of the very
dregs, I cannot teach you humility!”

He did not raise his voice in anger; the epithets fell in his cold
tones, like the tappings of rain upon glass.

She was neither distressed nor amused. The candlelight played upon the
mouldings of a spiritual face, singularly lovely. Another mystery than
that he spoke about was in the shadowed eyes, mystery in the dusky
shadings of her throat. Only the glory of her hair persisted, as
superior to the meagre illumination as Dr. Laffin was to the world.

Dr. Laffin saw nothing of beauty in her through his hard, brown eyes.

“I may be all these things,” said Betty calmly, “and yet feel a
natural diffidence at sitting in a shop window for people to gape at
me. I see no sense in it. I don’t profess to be a great actress--I
know I’m not--but I love my profession too much to let it down in the
way you suggest. What am I supposed to advertise?”

A gesture answered her.

“That doesn’t matter, I suppose? Well, I’ll not do it.”

She got up slowly from the side of the worn writing-table, resolution
in the poise of her head, the set of her fine mouth.

“Good night,” said Laffin, not rising. “You will find your way out. I
am going to take my ten. Close the door carefully.”

She never expected him to say any more than this. For a second she
looked down at him, her lips curled, a bitter loathing in her heart
for the man who had tortured her childhood with fear, and had blasted
her future to humour his whim. His head was drooping--the “ten” had
overtaken him--that ten minutes of sleep so profound that nothing had
ever awakened him. How helpless he was now! For one wild, mad moment
she stood over him, her hands clenched, trembling in her impotent
anger, and then, wrenching herself free from the hate that gripped
her, she ran out of the room, down the uncarpeted stairs and into the
street. The door boomed behind her.

“I hope he heard it in his dreams,” she said.

The tall man who had been waiting for her at the garden gate laughed
softly.

“That sounds vicious,” he said.

“You like him, Clive?”

Clive Lowbridge chuckled as he helped her into the little coupé that
had been waiting outside.

“Yes--in a way. His pomposity doesn’t annoy me, because he is sincere.
He really does think he is the greatest man in the world.”

“How did you come to know him?”

Clive did not answer until he had brought the car on to the main road
and had dodged a fast-moving tramcar.

“That fellow is exceeding all road-car limits,” he growled savagely.
“What were you saying? I’ve known him all my life. He was the family
physician. The home of our illustrious family used to be in Bath, and
the Laffins have been our doctors for hundreds of years. It is a sort
of tradition. He was my tutor--did you know that? Laffin’s clever.
Most of these weird birds are. You’re glad to be away from that
menage, aren’t you, Betty?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a queer devil. My uncle used to swear by him, and so did my
great-uncle, the seventh baron----”

She interrupted him, obviously anxious to turn the subject.

“How do your new honours sit upon you, Clive--heavily?”

The ninth Lord Lowbridge was mildly amused.

“The honours are a featherweight, but the mortgages--phew! How Uncle
Ferrers got rid of his money, heaven knows! At least, heaven and the
accountants! We always thought he was immensely wealthy. I fear it is
art or nothing with me, but I shall be obliged to paint one
masterpiece a year to pay the interest on the mortgages.”

She laughed softly.

“Your celebration party was premature.”

He grinned again as he sent the car whizzing through the gates of
Regent’s Park, narrowly avoiding a sedate limousine.

“La Florette,” he said tersely, as he glimpsed the woman in its
blazing interior. “That woman just hates being unnoticed! Why she
doesn’t have her name in lights on the top of the car is a standing
wonder to me. You know her, of course?”

Betty Carew made a little face in the dark. She knew La Florette very
well, only too well.

“Poor Clive!” she said. “A lord without money is a pathetic creature!
Not so pathetic, perhaps, as an ambitious actress who is doomed to be
a showgirl--at least, that is what I’m going to be if Robespierre has
his way.”

“Robespierre--oh, you mean the doctor? He _does_ look like the
sea-green incorruptible now that you mention the fact. What does he
want you to do?”

“He has one of his mad schemes--I am to accept an engagement from a
man who wishes to advertise a desk. He mentioned a desk early in the
conversation, so I suppose that is what it is.”

“But how?”

“I am to sit in a store window for four hours a day--the window is to
be built furnished like a study--wearing a green dress, and writing,
or pretending to write, at the desk, on which”--she laughed in spite
of her anger--“will be a jade vase with one red rose. Can you imagine
it?”

Clive Lowbridge did not answer for a long time.

“Do you think he’s mad?” he asked.

“I’m sure--there is no question about it--and oh! there is another
thing! A man will one day come to me and ask me for ‘the message’ and
I am to give him a letter which will be kept in the top right-hand
drawer of the desk.”

“He _is_ mad,” said Lowbridge emphatically, “and of course you’ll do
nothing of the kind, Betty.”

“I don’t know. I may be obliged…”

“Obliged! Jumping cats! I’ll talk to him if he starts anything of that
kind. The future Lady Lowbridge isn’t going to figure in a puppet
show.”

She squeezed his arm affectionately.

“Clive, you’ve other things to think about than marriage--and so have
I, my dear. Do you know Pips?”

“Orange or lemon?” he asked, as he helped her alight.

“Pips--Pawter’s Intensive Publicity Service? They are advertisers and
press agents. And they have the further handicap of employing the most
insufferable young man in London. Clive, that youth haunts me! I’m
sure the doctor has engaged him to shadow me.”

“What is his name--I mean the objectionable young man?”

“Holbrook--W. Holbrook. I suppose that the ‘W’ stands for William. Mr.
van Campe calls him ‘Bill,’ and so do most people round the theatre.
If you ever have the chance will you squash him for me, Clive, dear?”

“He’s squashed,” said Clive solemnly, and brushed her cheek with his
lips.

An hour later he was standing before his mirror, fastening his dress
tie with great care, a frown on his pink face. A good-looking young
man, with the classic features that the old Greek sculptors gave to
the heroes of mythology, he had the clear eyes and the frame of a
trained athlete. A series of accidents had brought him from the
obscurity and poverty of a Chelsea apartment, where he won a
precarious livelihood from painting landscapes of dubious originality,
to the lordship of Lowbridge and the attenuated income of estates so
heavily encumbered that it was difficult to find a labourer’s
tumbledown cottage that did not represent collateral security against
an overdraft negotiated by his improvident uncle.

His mind alternated between Betty and the eccentric doctor, in whose
house he had first met her five years before--slim, a gaunt-eyed
child, watchful, suspicious, pitiably ready to shrink at a word, all
too willing to humour the tyrant who was both parent and guardian.

Finishing his dressing, he rang the bell for his servant.

“Benson, you used to work in a club before you misguidedly accepted
service with me?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then you ought to know everybody. I want you to discover who Holbrook
is--Mr. W. Holbrook of Pawter’s Publicity Service. You’ll find their
names in the telephone directory.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Benson, stocky and broad of shoulder, needed no further instructions.
Half his attraction to Clive was his taciturnity.

“And, Benson,” as the man was leaving the room, “my cigars have been
evaporating at an alarming rate. Will you order a hundred of the
cheaper brand? They need not be bad cigars--get some that suit your
palate.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Benson was unmoved, neither apologetic nor confused. He had seen Dr.
Laffin slip a bundle into his pocket the last time the doctor had
called, but it was not his place to report the delinquencies of a
guest.




 CHAPTER III.
 PAWTER’S SERVICES

In the bright lexicon of Pawter, President, Chairman and Treasurer
of the Pawter Intensive Publicity Service (familiarly called Pips),
there was no such word as modesty.

“What most people call modesty is merely the wish that the authorship
of anything nice which may be said about them in the Press, shall not
be traced to them. Modesty is only a fear of ridicule. The very term,
used in a newspaper interview, is evidence of blatant conceit. When a
man says: ‘I would rather not talk about myself,’ he just means that
he’d rather somebody else did it; all the same, he’d like to have the
proofs to correct so that, if the reporters wrote how he killed five
lions, he could make it six. Modesty…!”

“Is this one of those extension lectures I read about, or merely an
exposition of your philosophy?” asked the patient young man who was
Pawter’s solitary audience. “If it is a lecture, I am bored; if it is
a mere acriomatic…”

“A which?” Pawter was startled.

“Acriomatic. Work that into the Memory ads. you’re doing. Drag in
Aristotle--what right has he to be left out anyway? As I was saying,
if you are practising for a Rotarian dinner speech, go to it. I’m your
assistant, underpaid and overworked, but loyal despite. This argument
started about Miss Betty Carew’s association with this agency. I
remind you in case you’ve forgotten.”

Mr. Pawter spun round in his chair and looked over his glasses. So
doing, he lowered and exposed the crown of a very bald head.

“Are you mad?” he asked gently--so gently that it might be supposed
that he rather thought it likely, and that it would be best not to
arouse such homicidal tendencies as lay dormant in the bosom of his
hearer.

“I’m not mad, but I’m getting mighty close to the borderline,” said
Bill Holbrook. “What’s all this to do with modesty? And by the way,
how can you bring yourself to write copy for Gro-Kwik--Nature’s
Natural Hair Restorer, with a nut like that? Rejuvenates Tired
Follicles! And you’re a churchman!”

“Never in my life,” said Pawter tremulously, “has a subordinate dared
to speak to me as you have spoken to-day! I would be well within my
rights if I fired you into the street! Why I refrain I don’t know.”

Bill Holbrook took a chair, fished from his pockets a pair of
horn-rimmed spectacles, and adjusting them to his face, looked
owlishly at his employer. Bill was twenty-three and pleasantly
featured, except for a nose that was slightly bent. He played
football, and once a great international had used his features as a
jumping-off place.

“I’m going to tell you, Father Pips,” he said solemnly. “I feel you
ought to know. Yesterday you fired me, to-day you fire me--you have
been firing me every day for months. But I do not go. Why? Because I’m
the only man in England who understands publicity. Yes, sir. The only
man. You think you do, but you don’t. In me you have a genius, a man
who Thinks Forward. I’m the only member of the staff who is related to
you, therefore I’m the only member of the staff that has the true
interest of the business at heart. When you die I shall await the
reading of the last will with equanimity. You _can’t_ leave me out of
a controlling interest.”

Pawter sighed again and swung back to his original position. Bill was
his first cousin, and there were times when he wished that his aunt
had never married.

“Anyway, Betty Carew is not a business proposition. I’ve been sitting
on her doorstep waiting for a chance to speak to her, but so far she
has given me the genial reception that is offered to a case of mumps
in a ladies’ college. When I tried to speak to her, she looked round
for a policeman. Where does she come into this stunt?”

“You’ll discover in course of time,” he said. “I can only assure you
that the lady will come in.”

Holbrook went back to his little office, and in his mind was a great
perplexity. What had induced the girl to take this extraordinary
decision? Advertising schemes and the inducements which brought
well-known actresses into the advertisement columns were no mysteries
to him; but this girl was not being asked to put her name to a
testimonial of some excellent remedy or popular article of furniture:
if she fell in with the idea, she was deliberately going out to make
herself cheap.

He sat, staring with unseeing eyes at the litter on his desk, his busy
mind occupied with the problem which Betty Carew’s strange conduct had
raised. Holbrook had no illusions about the theatrical profession; he
knew something of their lives, knew something of the terrific struggle
for existence which went on all the time, except among a few
favourites of the public; he knew, too, how permissible it was to
obtain publicity at almost any cost, but he was well aware that there
was a line over which no self-respecting actor or actress would pass,
and that line was far behind the place that Betty had decided to
overstep in this new undertaking of hers.

And underneath and behind the grotesqueness of the scheme was a
something which filled him with a vague sense of uneasiness.
Somewhere, he had heard a theory expounded that life runs backward,
from the end to the beginning of things; he had the sense of
remembering to-morrow, and it was not a pleasant memory.

Twice before he had had the queer experience of recalling events that
had not occurred. Once, when he was a reporter, he had been sent to a
little Welsh village to interview a Cabinet Minister whose estate was
near by. And on the Sunday morning he had gone to church to fill the
dreary hours of waiting for the one train that could take him back to
London. The service was over and he was strolling through the
churchyard, when he stopped suddenly by the grave of a murdered woman
whose husband, a lawyer, had been hanged for the crime.… He knew this,
though the husband was pointed out to him later in the day as a man of
great respectability, whose wife had died a natural death. A year
later the lawyer was arrested and died the death in Gloucester jail.

And the desk and the red-haired actress suggested something--something
terrible.

“Darn my crazy brain!” muttered Bill.

He had an appointment with Laffin that evening--he hated Saturday
evening appointments, but was anxious to keep this. He wanted his
Sunday free, for he had planned a trip to Thames head--Bill was
something of an explorer.

Clearing up some urgent work that awaited him, he was surprised by the
arrival of his chief, Mr. Pawter’s weakness being a hatred of all
physical exercise, and Holbrook wondered why he had made the perilous
journey from his palatial office to the mean abode of genius.

“I was going to tell you, Holbrook, that I wanted you to call on Mr.
Lambert Stone, the lumber millionaire, on Monday before you come to
the office. Stone arrives in London to-day, and I’ve got the rough
draft of a scheme which I think might attract him. Will you fix up an
appointment?”

“Lumber?” Bill Holbrook looked dubious. “I don’t see there’s a
selling value in that.”

“There’s a selling value in anything, you poor, slow-witted oaf,”
said Pawter, mildly offensive. “Get the appointment, and then come
back to me for the scheme. You’re seeing the doctor, aren’t you?”

Bill nodded.

“And I wish you’d find out to-night what’s behind this desk stunt,”
said Pawter, staring out of the window and scratching his head
irritably. “The desk is nothing--I think I’ve said that before--and I
can’t imagine people spending money on the proposition in the hope of
getting it back. I hate to knock a client’s goods, but this old desk
has all the disadvantages of most and none of the attractions of some.
Get Miss Carew’s views on the subject.”

Bill Holbrook sneered.

“Show me an actress with real views on anything, and I’ll show you a
professional misfit,” he said cryptically, and then: “Pips, I’ll tell
you what is behind that desk. Murder! I smell blood! Wilful murder…
maybe the crime of the century!”

Mr. Pawter’s round eyes were wide open.

“It is curious that you should say that,” he said. “That desk was
invented by a butler who was hanged in Oxford jail for killing his
wife--Laffin told me so.”




 CHAPTER IV.
 CAPTAIN HARVEY HALE

Outside the East India Dock Gates lies an area of squalor and
meanness which has no exact parallel in any other part of London. It
is a district of poor, jerry-built streets, wherein every house is
exactly like every other house.

Lyme Street, which lies midway between Silvertown and Canning Town,
was once distinguished by the existence within its narrow length of
five distinct public-houses, all of which did a noisy trade.
Temperance reformers cited Lyme Street as an object lesson and a
terrible example. Visiting social reformers from other lands were led
fearfully to its dingy purlieus, and novelists and playwrights sought,
amidst its foul approaches, the _mise en scène_ for such deeds of
depravity as were necessary to the development of their creations.

Of all the saloons that disgraced a civilised city, The Full Rigged
Ship was the worst, and when this infamous house of the crimp and the
harpy was purchased by The Christian Society and converted into a
Temperance Home for Sailors, there was rejoicing amongst the enemies
of drink.

For fourteen years the directors of “Theyome” (as it was called
locally) fought a desperate fight to establish an attractive oasis in
a desert of sin. All that mortal men could do, they did. There were
lectures on Booze, and lectures on Gardens and how to cultivate them;
there were most innocuous concerts that began with a hymn and ended
with a benediction, and addresses on The Child: What Will He Become?
And in spite of all these counter-attractions to the sinful saloons,
the heavy trade and the bulk of patronage went to The Five Bells and
The Dog Watch and similar alcoholic institutions, where nobody
lectured except on the miserable pay of sailormen, and all concerts
ended in a free-for-all fight which brought out the police reserves.

Eventually the uplift society “farmed” the home to a knowledgeable
ex-purser, who ran it on lines that more nearly approached the
seaman’s ideal, in spite of his bonded undertaking that no
intoxicating liquid should pass the threshold. A club license enabled
him to serve surreptitious drink, and, human nature being what it is,
the whisper, well circulated, that you could get a drop of good stuff
at “Theyome” brought a new patronage, and in the little doorway
through which innocent children had tripped to recite to the dazed
marine, you could take your secret potion from sin-stained hands.

Chief of the new patrons of the establishment was Captain Harvey Hale,
seventy-five by fifty coarse inches of muscle and bone; a red-faced,
fishy-eyed, heavy-jawed skipper, without either ship or ticket, for he
it was who piled the S.S. _Gravalla_ on to the Dame rocks and stood in
thirty-seventy for insurance which the underwriters refused to pay.

It was a grievance which Captain Hale ventilated in moments of
insobriety.

“Twelve months’ hard labour--for what?” he bellowed. “For losing a
ship that was a floating wreck. And me that thought first of my men
and had every boat overhauled before we left Sunderland! And lifebelts
all in good order and everything! ‘Wilfully casting away my ship’! Not
a life lost, mind you, and me the last to go over the side in
accordance with regulations!”

He did not refer to certain earlier exploits that had come before the
court which tried him: of a trial in Calcutta for manslaughter, of a
court of inquiry at Seattle for cargo-broaching, and similar
irregularities which had been investigated in other latitudes.

“Maybe they’ll engage you as a rum-runner,” suggested Taylor, the new
host of The Home.

“Maybe that’s it,” he said, “and I’ll do it!”

He glanced up at the clock.

“Expecting anybody?” asked the other, and Captain Hale looked at his
companion suspiciously.

“Maybe,” he said.

He took a letter from his pocket and read, and was in the act of
replacing it when he changed his mind, and passed it across to Taylor.

Mr. Taylor fixed his glasses and read the typewritten note.


 “I can give you a good job with plenty of money, if you’re willing to
 take on an unusual task, that will involve you in personal danger.
 Will you come out of the Sailors’ Home in Lyme Street at 10.30? My
 agent, Mr. Smith, will be waiting for you.”


“What do you make of that?” asked Hale.

“Rum-running,” said the other promptly. “There’s a syndicate in
London that is making a fortune out of shipping booze to the States.”

“Doesn’t sound like rum-running to me, though you may be right. A poor
sailor has got to take what he can get nowadays. Why, I remember the
time when I was offered…”

He was boastfully reminiscent and talkative, till, looking up, he saw
the hands of the clock at the half-hour, and, rising, threw some money
on the table.

“Don’t go following me, Taylor,” he said ominously, and Mr. Taylor,
whose curiosity had been aroused, and who had already made up his mind
that he would judge for himself the character and appearance of Hale’s
visitor, very wisely changed his mind.

There was nobody outside the club when Captain Harvey Hale went on to
the street, but opposite he saw a man walking slowly up and down, and
the red glow of his cigar suggested that he was the promised agent,
for cigars are uncommon, except among American and Scandinavian
seamen. After a moment’s hesitation he crossed the road in the
direction of the stranger, who turned and walked to meet him.

“You’re Captain Hale? I am the man you are expecting. Will you walk
with me?”

Hale glanced at him curiously. There was nothing in the appearance of
the man to suggest that he was engaged in any sinister project.

“Where shall we go?” he grunted.

“Mr. Smith,” who evidently knew the neighbourhood, said tersely:

“Across the railroad, toward North Woolwich.”

It was he who decided the route.

“This place will do,” said the man, and stopped midway between two
light standards. “Hale, you’re broke; you’re just out of prison, and
you look like going back again unless you can find a ship. I’ll be
frank, Captain, and I expect the same from you. You were tried in
Calcutta for killing a young apprentice, and it was suggested in
evidence that you had two hundred pounds from the boy’s stepfather to
finish him. The jury disagreed and you escaped. If you did that for
two hundred, how far would you go for five thousand pounds?”

“To hell--and through,” said Harvey Hale promptly. “Who do you want
killed?”

“My friend, that is a big question, easy enough to ask, but hard to
answer.”

“I’m not going back to prison again if I can help it,” growled the
big man. “That’s not my life. Give me any kind of
job--rum-running----” he paused.

“I’m not interested in rum-running,” he said, and Hale was
momentarily taken aback.

“I don’t care what it is,” he said at last. “Give me a job with five
thousand in it, and there’s nothing I’ll stop at. I mean what I say.
I’ve never gone back on my promise. Look what they did to me over the
sinking of that ship. I could have got the owner twenty years, but I
didn’t blab; and when I went in to see him this morning to get a look
at the money, he threatened to call the police.”

“You went to him this morning to work a little blackmail,” said the
other coolly. “You got a thousand to keep your mouth shut at the
trial, and, like a fool, you handed it over to the lady you called
your wife.”

“If I ever get hold of her----”

“I daresay you’ll treat her rough. But you won’t: she’s skipped to
Canada--I know all about you, Hale; I’ve been studying you for the
past month or two. Now the question is, are you going to work for
me?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Anything and everything. Can you drive a car?”

“There isn’t a car that was ever built----”

“You may be useful in that respect. And here is another point: you
suggested just now that you’d commit murder for five thousand. If
that’s a bluff, I may call it. You’ll get five thousand, and you will
be asked to do things which will mean a sentence of penal servitude if
you’re caught. But it isn’t five thousand that you’re getting, Hale,
if the scheme for which we want you goes through; it is fifty
thousand, and a free transportation to a country where you’ll never be
recognised, and from which you will not be extradited.”

Harvey Hale was sober now.

“Fifty thousand!” he said hoarsely. “You don’t mean that?”

“I mean that and nothing less. Five thousand certain; you can touch
the money at the rate of a thousand a week. And fifty thousand if we
can pull off our big job. Are you game?”

“Is there anything worse than murder?” he asked. “Because, if there
is, I’ll do it!”

“Walk with me,” said the stranger abruptly, and turned his footsteps
toward North Woolwich. “I suppose you know few people in town--few
well-known people, I mean?”

“I know a judge and a lawyer or two,” said Hale bitterly, “but I
don’t know any of the swells.”

“You will probably be brought into contact with a few,” his new
employer continued, “and I will give you the names of some you must
avoid like the plague. Do you know Lord Lowbridge? Of course you
don’t. He is a particularly dangerous man, who had better be left
alone.”

“I’m not likely to meet any lords,” growled the other.

“You never know, but keep out of the sight of him. He is never to know
that you’re employed by me--is that understood? Now here are your
instructions. You will leave the house where you’re staying, buy some
clothes and make yourself presentable, and then take the first train
for Newton Abbot--that is in Devonshire. You will put up at a small
hotel, giving out that you are a sea captain who is thinking of buying
a farm. You will be able to buy a second-hand car in the
neighbourhood.”

“What am I supposed to do with that?” asked Hale.

“You’ll get acquainted with all the roads out of Newton Abbot and
across the moor; work your way to Exeter, and possibly we shall ask
you to purchase a moor cottage, but it is too early to talk of that.
When we want you, you will know.”

He stopped under the light of a street lamp, took something wrapped in
tissue paper from his waistcoat pocket, opened it carefully and
displayed a small, five-pointed star. It was enamelled green, and in
the centre was a golden inscription.

“Keep that,” he said. “Show it to nobody--do you understand? In due
course you will find a very good use for it. One other thing: in
Plymouth there is a branch of a society called The Proud Sons of
Ragousa.”

“I’ve heard about that; lots of seafaring men go in for it. They run a
lottery scheme----” began Hale, but the other interrupted him.

“Join up, either in your own or any other name. If you’re too well
known in Plymouth, go to Penzance and join the lodge there. You will
find plenty of men who will propose you.”

“What’s the idea?” asked Hale, peering down suspiciously into the
man’s face.

“The first idea is that you do as you’re told,” was the sharp answer.




 CHAPTER V.
 BENSON

Benson gave a final and approving glance at the tea-table, filled a
silver cigarette box from a carton he took from the sideboard
cupboard, lit a tiny spirit lamp and drew back the velvet hangings a
little farther so that the scarlet geraniums in the window-boxes could
be seen with better effect. One casement window was open and a soft
breeze played with the silken curtains.

Clive Lowbridge strolled in as his valet-butler was at the window.

“That will do very nicely, Benson.”

He looked at his watch.

“Miss Carew is coming immediately after the matinée. You will see
that the car is ready to take her home?”

“Yes, my lord.” He paused by the door. “With reference to the young
man Holbrook, of whom your lordship spoke: he is an American, born in
Dayton, Ohio, and he was for some years on the staff of the London
_Dispatch-Herald_. He is now a junior partner in Pawter’s Publicity
Agency, being a relative of the principal shareholder. He lives in
Paddington and is unmarried. So far as I can ascertain, he has written
two books which were published in Boston, but he has no other
peculiarities.”

“Thank you, Benson. You have settled down to your new job?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You like this a little better than working in a club?”

“Much better, my lord----” he hesitated.

“But it isn’t such a good job as you thought, eh? Well, mine isn’t
either, Benson. I thought I should be spreading myself in Park Lane.
My uncle left very little money.”

“I am not surprised, my lord. The late Lord Lowbridge was known to
me--I have never ventured to inform your lordship before. I used to
work at his club in the West End, and I saw a whole lot of him. He
spent money like water, and I’ve known him to lose as much as twenty
thousand pounds in one night at baccarat. The Glebe Club is noted for
high play. A very affable gentleman. So was his son, who died so
suddenly.”

“You knew my cousin too, did you?”

“Yes, my lord. Without wishing to alarm your lordship, there seems
something constitutionally wrong about the family. The Honourable John
died of heart failure, and you could have taken a lease of his life;
Lord Lowbridge, a good-living gentleman and as hard as nails, went off
in exactly the same way a year after--nobody would have dreamt that
his lordship was so near to death. And both were under the care of a
clever doctor--Dr. Laffin.”

“You know Dr. Laffin--was he a member of the Glebe?”

“Yes, my lord.”

A buzzer sounded in the hall, and he went, without unseemly hurry, to
admit Betty.

“How serious you look, Clive! Has anything happened?” she asked after
the greetings were over.

“No--no! Benson is a queer chap.”

“Benson--your servant?”

“Yes. I find that he knew my uncle, and I guess he knew Laffin too;
they were both members of the Glebe. That is where my relative
dissipated the family guilders. I shouldn’t be surprised if the doctor
hadn’t lost a considerable portion of his assets under the same
roof.”

She sighed as she settled down to pour the tea.

“Dr. Laffin has always been poor,” she said, “and yet he owns things
that are worth thousands of pounds. One day I went into the study
without knocking, and he had on his desk a most beautiful piece of
jewellery--a great golden clasp studded with diamonds. He was very
angry that I had seen it, and told me that it was only a worthless
replica of the Buckle of Isis. But I’m sure it was real.”

Clive bit his lip, and in his fine eyes was the shadow of trouble.

“When did you see this?” he asked.

“Over a year ago--about a fortnight after we had had the strangest
adventure in Devon. Do you remember my telling you about the monks who
stopped the car?”

He nodded.

“At least, I suppose they were monks,” she went on. “I don’t know
why, but I associated the gold clasp--and it was gold, Clive, in spite
of what the doctor said--with that meeting.”

“On the moor?”

She nodded.

“Yes: we were very poor at the time, and the doctor was short of ready
money, though he used to hint of a huge fortune which was coming to
him. I’m certain he could not have had the buckle before. I think they
gave it to him.”

Clive Lowbridge looked at her thoughtfully.

“I don’t understand him,” he said. “But he was good to me as a boy,
and I cannot quite share your dislike for him. For all the years of
tutorial work he gave me, he did not charge a penny.”

Betty could have pursued the subject, but refrained, understanding his
reluctance to speak against the man she hated. And she remembered, on
the way to the theatre, the circumstances that had made it necessary
for Clive’s mother to enlist the services of the family doctor as an
unpaid tutor. She had been left a widow with a microscopic income;
three lives had stood between her boy and the title, and the prospect
of his inheriting the mythical wealth of the Lowbridge estates was a
remote one.

She could never associate the doctor with generosity; there must have
been some _quid pro quo_.

When, that night, Betty Carew strolled on to the stage of the Orpheum,
only the pilot lights were glowing in the battens, for Van Campe was
an economist, and there was urgent need for economy, as she was to
learn.

It was very cold and very miserable, and Betty wandered disconsolately
to the little peep-hole in the curtain and stared into the deserted
auditorium. There were seven people in the stalls, obviously “paper.”
The pit held a fringe of audience--the first two rows were hardly
filled, though the doors had been open for half an hour. The young
assistant stage-manager joined her.

“Looks lively, doesn’t it?” he asked bitterly.

“It isn’t very hopeful,” she said.

“It _is_ hopeful,” he said. “That is all we’ve got left--hope! A
musical comedy that hasn’t any music worth whistling, and not enough
comedy to raise a ha-ha from start to finish, naturally starts
handicapped. The notice goes up to-night--you’ve seen it?”

She nodded.

_The Girl from Fez_ had run for a fortnight. There had been seven
weeks’ rehearsal, and on the notice-board had appeared a typewritten
slip. She had seen “the notice” before, but at the end of a long and
successful run. Now this intimation that the play would be taken off
in two weeks’ time brought a little heartache. The last lines of the
notice were even more alarming:


 “The provisional notice given to artistes on the first night will
 operate as stated.”


“Does that include me, Mr. Tillett?” she asked.

“I’m afraid it does, Miss Carew,” said the manager. “The governor
knew he had a flivver before he read the criticisms in the morning
papers--he dashed in and got himself on the safe side. La Florette
isn’t a friend of yours, is she?”

Betty shook her head. La Florette, the thin-lipped French dancer, was
not in the cast. Van Campe seldom played her, but she sat by his side
at rehearsals, and in her strange French criticised and sneered and
laughed derisively, and told Van Campe how much better these things
were done in France; and Van Campe, who was her slave, cut and pruned,
until authors were in despair, and the cast in a state of mutiny.

“Well----”

The manager opened his mouth to speak, when the pass door connecting
the stage with the front of the house opened, and a fluffy figure
floated through; from the crown of her waved and henna’d hair to the
tips of her jewelled shoes she was a triumph of the human dollmaker’s
art.

She picked a dainty way through the débris of the stage, and stood
before the girl, surveying her through a pair of unnecessary
lorgnettes.

“Ah, you are Carew, yes? I wanted to speak to you. ’Ow do you do your
’air? It is not peroxide, no? I ’ave admire it. You are a bad actress,
and your voice, _mon Dieu!_ it is aw-ful, but your ’air is lovely! You
’ave puzzle me, so I promised Charles I would ask.”

“And now you have kept your promise, Miss Florette,” said Betty,
striving to tune out the anger from her voice.

“You tell me--no?”

“There is nothing to tell you. My hair is as the Lord made it.” Betty
smiled in spite of her annoyance.

La Florette shrugged her thin shoulders.

“But that is what you would call--a lie, eh?”

Betty’s eyes snapped fire.

“It is what you would call a lie too, I think,” she said, with
ominous calm; “for if you are not pure unadulterated Limehouse, I have
never met a lady from that district! Your broken English may sound
pretty to a Dutchman or a Greek, but, unfortunately, I speak the
language rather well, and I know that, beyond a smattering of
Montmarte argot, you are as ignorant of French as I am of Chinese!”

“Oh, I am, am I?”

La Florette, shocked out of her pose, dropped her hands to her hips,
and her shrill voice rose to a scream.

“I’ll teach you to insult an artiste of my standing, you--you chorus
girl! Limehouse, am I…?”

The flow of expletive which followed supplied the answer to her
question.

“… and I’ll have you fired out of this theatre, Miss, before you’re a
minute older. I’ve got an international reputation to keep up, I have!
I don’t allow no gutter-bred----”

Mr. Van Campe appeared, an agitated and rotund man, whose hands
flashed gay lights as he waved them in expostulation and protest.

“Put her understudy on,” he roared. “Pay her salary and throw her
out!”

Betty went up to her dressing-room, hot, angry, but triumphant. She
had prayed for the courage to say all that she had said to Florette.
She would go to De Fell--the urbane young manager, who had offered her
a part in his new production. She grew cheerful at the thought. It was
at that moment that her dresser knocked.

“Dr. Laffin, Miss,” she said.

Betty sighed heavily. Here was a shadow not so easily dispelled.




 CHAPTER VI.
 BETTY CONSENTS

Dr. Laffin, in the brighter light of the dressing-room, was revealed
as being a little above middle height, but he was so very thin that he
appeared taller. He was dressed in a funereal black; all the bitter
years Betty had known him he had worn nothing else. A black,
unrelieved except by the thin edge of white collar that showed above
his high cravat, and the occasional appearance of a rim of white cuff
at his wrists.

“Good-evening, child. Why are you not playing?” he asked.

“Because Van Campe has discharged me,” she said recklessly.

To her surprise his face did not change.

“Discharged you? Well, well!” And then, remembering the opportunity
which this piece of news gave to him: “I took a great deal of trouble
to find this position for you. Still… it may be for the best. You will
return home now?”

“No, I shall find other work.”

Sitting down at her dressing-table, he subjected her to a long
scrutiny.

“I shall not be able to make you an allowance this time,” he said.

Betty did not expect that he would.

“I have a little money--” she began.

“Happily, I can save you trouble. I seem to have spent my life--saving
you trouble. It would be wiser if you came home. The house in Camden
Town has not been quite the same since you left. And the other matter
is definitely settled.”

He took from his pocket a printed leaflet, and laid it on the table
before her. She braced herself for the coming struggle. Vulture! He
was all that. Disaster brought him unerringly to the spot; it was as
though her dismissal had been arranged by him for that night.

She read the pamphlet and looked up.

“This is an advertisement of a desk,” she said innocently.

“Mortimer’s Multiple Desk,” he murmured. “There is no desk on the
market like it. But to the outward eye, and at first glance, it
appears to be no different from other desks. Suppose, however, a
beautiful young lady is seen in a shop window sitting at that desk.
Picture the hurrying crowd to whom shop windows are such----”

“You mean that you still have that absurd scheme--that you want me to
sit in a store window… to exhibit myself?”

“It may sound a revolting suggestion to one who is a great actress.”
He mouthed the words with a certain satisfaction. “It may seem almost
a desecration of her art to lower herself to the level of an
exhibition. And yet, what are you but an exhibitor, Elizabeth?”

“Of course, I’ll do nothing of the kind,” she said. Her face was
flushed, her eyes unusually bright. “I told you on Monday night--I
will not do this.”

“The pay is amazingly attractive.” Dr. Laffin was apparently
oblivious to her rising anger. “It is no less than fifteen pounds a
week. Your duties begin at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and end at
four o’clock in the afternoon.”

“I’ll not do it!”

“I fear you have no choice. I wish it. I, who took you from the
workhouse, where you were supported by charity, and gave you a house,
an education, and the illusion of parenthood.”

“Dr. Laffin, I will do anything in reason. It isn’t necessary to go
over the old ground and tell you that, in spite of the material
advantages you gave me, my life has been wretchedly miserable. I won’t
ask for your help, and I can get a part in De Fell’s new play--he has
half promised me.”

“By the most fortunate chance I have become acquainted with a young
man, who will be of the greatest assistance to you when your
engagement is concluded--he is an authority on the subject of
publicity----”

“Oh!”

In a flash she remembered the objectionable youth who had haunted the
stage door for weeks, and, if she had any doubt at all, it was to be
dispelled immediately.

“My young friend is waiting outside; I will take the liberty of
bringing him in.”

It was the young man; she recognised him immediately. He was not in
evening dress; she would have been surprised if he wore anything so
civilised. His tweed waistcoat was untidy with cigarette ash, his tie
had slipped down, exposing the brass head of a stud, and his hair
needed the attention of a brush.

“I think I’ve met you before, Miss Carew,” he said briskly. “The
doctor asked me to see you about this desk they’re booming. I
understand that your name hasn’t to appear. That is good publicity
wasted----”

“Mr.----?” She paused inquiringly.

“Holbrook--William. Bill to my friends.”

“Mr. Holbrook, I want you to understand that I shall do nothing so
humiliating as you have suggested.”

“I didn’t--” he began, but she signalled him to be silent.

“I have no illusions about my work,” she said. “I am not a brilliant
actress, and I never dreamt that I was. But I have enough respect for
myself and my--my art to reject this suggestion. I have no intention
of sitting in a shop window----”

“Furnished in the semblance of a handsome library,” murmured the
doctor.

“I don’t care how it is furnished. I will not do anything so--so
undignified. It would ruin whatever chance I had in this profession,
and advertise my incompetence.”

Mr. William Holbrook passed his fingers through his untidy hair in
perplexity.

“I am rather surprised,” he said. “I thought the matter was settled,
Miss Carew. ‘Pips’ have only got the publicity end of the desk. We are
the advertising agents, and this stunt is a new one on me.”

She looked at him suspiciously.

“Isn’t this your idea?”

“No, my love.” It was the doctor. “It is not Mr. Holbrook’s idea. It
is mine. Will you excuse me, Mr. Holbrook?--I will see you in the
morning.”

When they were alone, he took up his silk hat, and smoothed the glossy
nap meditatively.

“The window will be set on Tuesday,” he said. “It is in a side street
leading from Piccadilly. A very select neighbourhood.”

“I will not do it,” she said. “I am seeing Mr. De Fell on Monday, and
I hope to open with his new piece.”

“Open by all means,” he said, “and the night you appear there will be
men outside the theatre distributing handbills telling the world that
you are the daughter of a man who was hanged at Oxford Prison for the
murder of your mother.”

The girl turned white.

“You would not dare… it would be cowardly, brutal… you would not
dare!”

Dr. Laffin never smiled. When he was amused, the skin about his eyes
wrinkled for a second, as it wrinkled now. With that slow
deliberation, which marked his every movement, he put his hand in his
breast pocket and took out a leather case.

“I have never shown you this,” he said, and unfolded a newspaper
cutting. “Listen!


 “‘This morning at nine o’clock, James Setherby Caren, a butler, of
 Nash Terrace, Bath, suffered the extreme penalty of the law at Oxford
 jail, to which he had been transferred after his sentence at the Bath
 Assizes. It will be remembered that Caren, who had been drinking
 heavily, shot his wife in a moment of drunken frenzy. The child,
 Elizabeth, who was such a pathetic figure at the trial, is now an
 inmate of Bath Workhouse. Caren, who expressed his penitence for his
 crime, walked firmly to the scaffold, and death was instantaneous. The
 man, who seems to have been above the average order of intelligence,
 enjoyed some local fame as an inventor.’


“You were rather young to remember the trial,” he said, “but I dare
assert that you remember how a disinterested physician rescued you
from a pauper home, and gave you the advantages of an education?”

She did not answer. Young as she had been, she remembered that
vividly. Remembered the pallid man in the dock, the red-robed judge,
the bustle of the little court-house. She recalled a chill morning
when the workhouse matron had come to her and patted her head kindly
and given her an apple. There was a little gutter child in the same
dormitory, who, when the matron had gone, pointed a skinny finger at
her, and shrieked:

“Her father got hung this morning!”

She did not know what “getting hung” meant at the time--she knew it
was something very final, because the matron told her, to her relief,
that she would never see the big, wicked man who beat her mother any
more. For this she was glad, but she wanted to see her mother, and
cried and cried at nights because there was no rough hand to hold
hers, and no thin, weary voice to tell her fairy stories.

“I will dispel any mistaken ideas you may have as to my motive,” the
doctor went on. “You were an experiment: I wanted to see how
impressionable was the plastic mind of childhood. As an experiment you
were a failure. You have now an opportunity of repaying me for the
care I have shown and the expense I have incurred on your behalf. The
desk you will advertise was one of your late father’s precious
inventions. It is valueless.”

She shuddered, in spite of herself.

“You will do as I wish?”

“If I do this, it will be the last service I will render you.”

“Not the last. There is yet one more--a negative service. Now and for
ever you will forget that I was ever stopped on Dartmoor one stormy
night. You understand? You will forget also about a certain gold
buckle you saw. If you ever speak to a living soul about that, you
will speak no more!”




 CHAPTER VII.
 AT THAMES HEAD

Betty Carew might have prayed, and did pray, for deliverance from
many evils, great and small. That she had failed to include a
supplication for quittance of an untidy young American, who spent his
work days in the office of Pawter’s Intensive Publicity Agency, and
his Sundays in inexpensive exploration, was brought home to her with
force on the sunny Sabbath that followed her interview with Dr.
Laffin.

Betty was on one side of the Thames, Bill Holbrook on the other, and
Betty was surrounded by a large wasp. Betty hated wasps, and
apparently this particular wasp hated Betty, for its “z-u-u-u!” held
a ferocity of purpose which was terrifying.

“_Vespa vulgaris!_” murmured Bill with satisfaction. “A hymenopterous
insect of the family _vespidæ_!”

And then Betty gave a scream. To her, _vespa vulgar_ was just plain
wasp, and it had made an angry dart toward her face. She shrank back,
one foot went into the water, but by an effort she recovered her
balance. In another second Bill had leapt across the Thames to her
side, and with one sweep of his soft hat had sent the vulgar vespa to
destruction.

“Saved,” he said, made a false step and went calf-deep into very cold
water.

“You might have come before,” she said tartly. “You saw the horrid
thing attacking me.”

“Not every man would leap across the Thames--that river which carries
the commerce of the world upon her broad bosom----”

For this was the source of the historic river, and about them were the
rolling hills of Gloucestershire.

“Anybody could jump the Thames here,” she said scornfully. “A rabbit
could jump it!”

“Put me down as being no better than a rabbit,” he said with a quiet
dignity. “And as to your ingratitude, we will overlook that. One
doesn’t expect it nowadays. The war has changed people’s manners and
cut away much of the silk linings of behaviour. May I see you home?”

“No, you may not see me home. I don’t live here--as you well know,”
she said a little breathlessly. “I am greatly obliged to you, but I
don’t think you ran much risk.”

“Any man who saves a popular actress from the malignant pursuit of a
wasp deserves well of his country, Miss Carew,” he said, and she went
pink with annoyance. “I should have recognised you, even if I hadn’t
met you last night,” said Bill, wagging his head. “There’s nobody in
the world with hair like yours. Think better of it, Miss Carew. Place
yourself in the hands of Pips, or, better still, in mine, and I would
make you famous in a month.”

She had disliked him instinctively before; she hated him now. He was
so young, so horribly self-satisfied and so terribly common. Nor did
his frank admiration of her hair soothe her. Betty’s hair was
admittedly wonderful. It had the colour and bloom of sunset corn, a
red through which the gold shone so insistently that the redness did
not appear until it was caught by a ray of light. And under the hair
were features that could not be faulted, and a skin of delicate
texture--such skins as that colour of hair so often favour.

“I think you should know that I can find my way back to the--the car
without assistance,” she said coldly.

“I’ll come round and talk this over with you, Miss Carew,” he said
gravely. “Pips can give you fame. A corporation like ours that can
make people look for the label on a paint can, wouldn’t have much
trouble in placing your name in half-watt blinders--and Pips are
reasonable. So far as I am concerned, it will be a labour of love--and
for fear I raise your hopes, I will add that ‘love’ is only used in a
Pickwickian sense. What I mean is----”

But she was walking rapidly down the road to the little village where
the joy wagons were parked, and her fury was only discernible by the
vigour and length of her stride.

Stillwell’s Select Charabanc Tours had brought her that Sunday the
hundred miles which separated the head of the Thames from the City of
the Eighteen Bridges--which is London. These same tours, but a
different car, were also responsible for the presence of Bill
Holbrook. They ran from Trafalgar Square on Sunday mornings, and for a
ridiculously small sum one might be insured of a day in the country
and the association of a superior company--for these were select
tours. The employment of that qualifying adjective suggested that Mr.
Stillwell spent his time between tours examining the social
credentials of his clients.

Unfortunately, Mr. Stillwell must have been ill during the week
preceding this particular Sunday, and handed over this selective
function to a careless subordinate, since the people who rode in
Betty’s coach were members of no exclusive social set. There were
stout women who brought luncheon baskets and ate throughout the
journey, riotous young men who carried refreshments in bottles,
mothers of families who brought their responsibilities with them, and
a vinegary spinster or two.

Happily, Mr. Holbrook was accommodated in another coach. Or he had
been until the tour began its homeward journey. Then she saw him,
wedged between two voluble ladies who shouted at one another across
him; he was on the front seat of the wagon, and far enough removed
from her to make conversation impossible.

The great, lumbering coach rolled across the dreary plain which
separates Cheltenham from Oxford. Clouds had come heaping from the
west; ahead the skies were a coppery grey. Somebody in the front seats
began to sing a doleful song about mother. Betty shivered and drew her
wrap a little closer, though the afternoon was warm to the point of
discomfort. Once she saw the annoying young publicity agent glance
round at her a little anxiously. He was wondering whether
thunderstorms scared her--and that a storm was gathering he knew long
before the first growl of thunder insisted above the noise of the
coach, and the big spots came splashing down.

On the outskirts of Oxford the three coaches stopped, and, as usual,
at a place of refreshment. Most of Mr. Stillwell’s select company
descended to fortify their nerves for the coming ordeal.

They were not alone in the caravan sense. Drawn up on the broad gravel
campus before the Five Stars Inn were three huge joy wagons, but
whereas Mr. Stillwell’s select conveyances bore no more than his name
in letters of modest size and irreproachable character, these
charabancs wore sheets that covered the backs of each car and were
lettered conspicuously:


                       “The Proud Sons of Ragousa.
                      (Pride of the medway lodge 95)
                             Annual Picnic.”


As Stillwell’s wagons came to a halt, the inn was disgorging the proud
children of Ragousa, and one wagon was already filled ready for
departure.

Betty, who had got down to stretch her cramped limbs, watched them,
puzzled.

“Who on earth are the Proud Sons of Ragousa?” she asked, and could
have bitten her tongue when she discovered that, unconsciously, she
was putting the question to the objectionable young American.

“You’ve asked me one too many,” said Bill. “I only know that it is a
society of some kind. Cute little name, isn’t it? Sons of Ragousa!
Name seems kind of familiar. Say, Miss Carew, what’s the idea of this
desk stunt? I meant to ask you before, but you were so mad at me that
I hadn’t a chance…”

But Betty was already moving away. Of all the things she did not wish
to do, she placed an exchange of confidence between herself and Mr.
William Holbrook in the forefront.

Along the road she had seen a bush pink with dog-roses, and although
dog-roses are notoriously without vitality, the plucking of them would
occupy time.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the offensive young man
hesitating; some remnant of decent feeling restrained him, she noted
with satisfaction. Perhaps she had penetrated beneath his thick skin,
or, what was more likely, he had not the gift of perseverance.

She picked her roses undisturbed, save by the swift rush of a little
car that came flying past in a cloud of dust which the thunder drops
had not as yet laid. Then, to her surprise, the car came to a violent
halt twenty yards beyond her, and began to move backward. Though it
was hardly likely that the driver wanted information about his route,
there seemed no other reason, until the machine was abreast of her,
and a man leaned out of the window.

“Isn’t that Betty?” he asked.

She gave a little gasp of astonishment.

“Clive!” She took the extended hand with a sense of deepest relief.

“Charabanc? Oh, Lord! Whatever made you do it? And I asked you to let
me take you out! You don’t want to go with that lot, do you?” he
asked. “Jump in.”

He opened the door for her, and she was by his side in an instant.

“I _don’t_!” she said emphatically. “Providence is working for me!
They are terrible!”

“I’ve been to Witney, to my noble house,” said her companion
bitterly. “You’ve never seen it? You’re lucky! It is a horror!”

She glanced round at him, inclined to be amused, but a deep frown
furrowed his smooth brow, and the good-looking face was puckered in a
grimace of utter disgust.

_Flick… flick!_

A blue ribbon of lightning quivered for the fraction of a second ahead
of the car, a tree by the roadside burst into white flame--she smelt
burning wood as the car spun past, and instinctively nestled nearer to
Clive.

“That was a beauty,” he said calmly. “We’ll run out of this before we
reach Oxford--I think we’re on the edge of the storm. You’re a bad
girl to go charabancing around,” he said. (She thought he was trying
to keep her mind off the storm, and was not far wrong.)

“I like them--the excursions, I mean. One gets into a new atmosphere
and meets types. Only to-day… well, they were rather awful!”

Clive laughed softly.

“What about this show-girl idea of the doctor’s?” he asked. “Do you
intend humouring him?”

She nodded.

“You do? Moses!”

“I must--for reasons. And Clive, dear, you are to promise me that you
will not come anywhere near the wretched shop when I am installed. I’d
not survive your seeing me.”

“Not me. I never go shopping. Benson does all that. Were you in one of
those decorated barouches--poor dear!”

“Where--oh, you mean the big wagons with their banners? No, that was
an excursion party. The Sons of Ragousa--Clive!”

She uttered a little scream. Twice, three times the lightning stabbed
down, so close that Betty was for the moment blinded.

She looked at her companion. His face was a shade paler, his
wide-opened eyes held a something she could not read.

“Sons of Ragousa!” he said jerkily. “My God… How funny!”




 CHAPTER VIII.
 THE PROUD SONS

The Proud Sons of Ragousa were celebrating the inauguration of a new
lodge, and the opening of a new lodge-room, and Bill Holbrook,
standing on the edge of the sidewalk, watched with wonder and
amusement the passing of a procession, which contained six brass bands
and some fifty silken banners, each representative of a branch lodge
except for one, heavily embroidered with bullion, and bearing the
inevitable golden argosy that marked in the parade the symbol of the
officers of the district lodge.

Fifty lodges were represented--Bill Holbrook counted the banners--the
Pride of Kent, the Pride of Hampshire, the Pride of the Five Ports,
the Pride of Limehouse…

It was a procession of ordinary people--artisans, factory folk, small
shopkeepers, a sprinkling of office men, honest, self-conscious
individuals, some wearing that hang-dog expression which comes to the
Englishman when he is feeling foolish, a few beaming at the joke of
appearing in public wearing purple plush regalia, not a few immensely
serious, transfigured by the unaccustomed publicity.

The spectacle was not altogether unexpected by Bill Holbrook. He knew
that odd experiences have a trick of duplicating themselves. On the
Sunday he had met the Ragousans in the flesh--he had been waiting all
week to meet them again.

“What have they got to be proud about, anyway?” he asked.

The policeman, by whose side he stood, smiled slowly.

“Well--you’ve seen these societies before… Good Templars and Buffaloes
and Sons of the Phœnix and Knights of the Round Table, haven’t you?
They like it. I’m a member of one myself--as a matter of fact, I’m
chief noble of my lodge--Sons of the Phœnix. But these chaps aren’t
temperance. At the same time it’s not a boozing crowd. I thought of
joining myself. It’s worth while. Costs a pound a year, but there’s
two Argosies, one in June and one in December, and they’re worth fifty
thousand pounds each. That’s why the order has caught on.”

“Fan me or I’ll faint!” said Bill. “What is all this stuff about
Argosies? I see now! There’s a golden ship on every banner. But what
do you mean by fifty thousand pounds--a quarter of a million
dollars!”

The policeman looked at him suspiciously. He saw a tall, thinnish
young man, rather good-looking and untidily dressed.

“You’re American, aren’t you? I thought you was from the bad way you
talk English. About these Argosies. You pay one pound a year, and
you’re insured for a hundred--if you join young enough. Then every
half-year there’s a drawing. In June there’s a first prize of ten
thousand and hundreds of others--at Christmas there’s a big bonus and
only one prize--fifty thousand.”

Bill watched the tail of the procession, with its little crowd of
small boys bringing up the rear, until it passed from sight.

“That’s a new one on me,” he said. “I’ll have to consult my police
adviser.”

Again the officer grinned.

“You lodge with Mr. Bullott, don’t you, sir?”

“Yes.” Holbrook was surprised that his fame extended to the Edgware
Road.

“I’ve seen you go in and out; I used to be on that beat. As a matter
of fact, I didn’t recognise you till that bird asked me if you had
rooms at the inspector’s house.”

Bill followed the constable’s quick sidelong glance. A few feet away
from them, gazing after the procession, was a man, who, in ordinary
circumstances, would not have attracted his attention. Bill had a
practice of dividing people he met casually into classes; one of these
he called “the adequately paid,” and it was in the last category that
he placed the interested spectator.

He was dressed in a well-made tweed suit. He wore a spotless
wide-winged collar; his cravat was black, his shoes sensible and
solid. The face was thin, almost intellectual. He had a slight red
moustache, and on the bridge of his bony nose rested a pair of
gold-rimmed spectacles.

“What do you think he is?” asked the policeman.

“I’ll guess,” said Bill. “He’s a floor manager.”

The constable shook his head.

“Wait a minute,” said Bill, “I haven’t got him high enough. He’s a
storekeeper--one of the synthetic intelligentsia. He has socialistic
tendencies, believes in the land theories of Henry George----”

“No, sir,” said the policeman triumphantly.

“I’ll try again,” said Bill. “He’s a clerk in a Government office,
probably holds some good position----”

“You’re wrong, sir,” said the officer.

“Then what is he?”

“He’s a burglar.”

The policeman made the startling statement with great calm.

“That is Toby Marsh,” he went on, before Bill could recover from his
shock, “one of the cleverest cracksmen in London--he’s only been
caught once, and that was by accident.”

At that moment the spectacled eyes turned and surveyed the two men in
a scrutinising, unabashed stare. In another instant he had resumed his
inspection of the procession.

“I’d like to talk to him. Bring him over.”

“Me?” said the officer, aghast. “Good heavens! I couldn’t do that!
Why, he’d tie me up in knots! Ordinary kind of police don’t deal with
people like that,” he explained. “You see, we’ve got nothing on him,
and the plain clothes branch doesn’t thank you for interfering with
that kind of feller.”

At this moment, “that kind of feller” walked away from them, and
disappeared in the crowd.

“Besides, you never know whether chaps like that are working for our
people or not. Though I wouldn’t say Toby was a ‘nark’.”

“Nark?” said the puzzled Bill. “Oh, you mean a stool pigeon. I get
you!”

“All the same,” the policeman went on, “a high-class burglar can be
very useful to Scotland Yard, and if I started getting fresh with him,
the chances are I’d get a rap over the knuckles to-morrow morning.”

There was a time when Bill Holbrook would have followed the exclusive
Mr. Marsh, and wrung from him a crisp column for the
_Dispatch-Herald_; but journalism belonged to the past. Bill was now a
business man, an expert on matters pertaining to publicity.

The initiative in the matter, however, was taken out of his hands. He
had said good-night to the policeman, and had turned into Cambridge
Terrace, when he saw Toby Marsh a little ahead of him. He was standing
with his back to the railings, in the attitude of one who was waiting
for somebody, and Bill would have passed him, but suddenly the man
moved across the path to intercept him.

“Excuse me, sir.”

His tone was that peculiar falsetto, which a certain class regard as
an easy advertisement of good-breeding.

“I observed you regarding the rabble, or, as one would put it, the
_hoi polloi_, and possibly you, as a newspaper reporter, are
interested in the psychology of the lower orders which makes such
exhibitions possible.”

Bill was taken aback, both by the elegance of the diction, and the
unusual nature of the man’s opening.

“The lower orders,” Mr. Marsh went on, evidently enjoying the sound
of his own voice most thoroughly, “have the instinct of imitation. And
when the instinct of imitation coincides with the desire for
aggrandisement, the natural consequence is something foolish. Hence
the Sons of Ragousa, with their pathetic mysteries, their grips, their
password--which, by the way, is ‘Drake’--their robes, their cowls,
their blue fire initiations, their priors, their grand priors,
captains of lodges and orders of the day.”

Bill grinned.

“You seem to have a close acquaintance with the order.”

“All orders are familiar to me,” said Mr. Marsh, with a modest and
self-deprecating gesture. “But the Twenty-Third Degree of the Sons of
Ragousa more especially.”

He saw the look of mystification in the other’s face, and was smugly
gratified.

“With the Twenty-Third Degree of the Proud Sons of Ragousa,” he
repeated with relish; “and more especially with the Golden Voice of
the Absolute!”

For a moment Bill stared at him suspiciously. Was he drunk? Apparently
Mr. Marsh read his thoughts.

“I am an abstainer, and a believer in prohibition. When I speak of the
Golden Voice of the Absolute, I speak of a tangible, material being,
beautiful to the eye, pleasant to the ear--her terrestrial name is
Miss Elizabeth Carew!”




 CHAPTER IX.
 NO-ARREST BULLOTT

Bill gaped at him in amazement.

“Miss Elizabeth Carew? Miss Betty Carew, you mean--the actress?”

“As an actress she has never impressed me,” said Mr. Marsh.

He pulled a very ornate gold case from his pocket, opened it and took
out a cigarette, snapped the case and handed it for Bill’s inspection.

“It cost me twenty-five pounds,” he said laconically. “Every time the
police pinch me, they try to find an owner for it, and after I’ve kept
them walking about London till their feet ache, I introduce them to
the jeweller from whom it was purchased. It is one of my recreations.
Yes, sir, Miss Betty Carew is the lady to whom I refer.”

“But, my dear, good man, what the devil are you talking about?” asked
the irritated Bill. “Voice of the Absolute… Twenty-Third Degree… do
you suggest that Miss Carew is a member of this amiable order?”

The man shook his head.

“I saw you talking to the ‘flattie’[1]. I daresay he described me,
and with perfect accuracy, as a burglar. To such clods as P.C.
Simmonds and his kind, I am nothing more. With their lack of
imagination it is almost impossible that they should see below the
surface, and discover an intellect. The police have no mysteries--the
introduction of the finger-print system destroyed whatever romance
remained in the business of thief-catching. But when you see
Bullott--a pleasant, but somewhat inexperienced officer--will you be
good enough to mention to him my few remarks in regard to the
Twenty-Third Degree?”

And, lifting his hat, he stalked away, leaving Bill with that baffled
feeling, which came to the old-time heroes of fairy stories, who heard
cows speak and fish proclaim their royal origin.

It was Bill Holbrook’s fortune to be the sole boarder of a
Sub-Inspector of Police, a quiet, uncommunicative man, young looking,
considering his rank, and interested in the breeding of canaries.

Bill had two excellent rooms, a view of a garden, which in summer was
a joyous vision, and a large share of liquid melody, which the song
birds provided. That night, when he was puzzling out the strange words
of his newest acquaintance, there came a tap at his door, and in
response to his invitation, his landlord appeared in the doorway.

“Hullo! Come in, Mr. Bullott. Do you want me?”

“I was wondering if you’d let me have one of your papers.”

There was a pile of newspapers on a shelf, and Bill pointed.

“Help yourself--they’re all there. Did you wish any particular one?”

“_The Times_--I wanted to see if that agony was in again. I didn’t
have time at the Yard; the Deptford murder kept me busy.”

Getting up, Holbrook found the newspaper.

“Which agony?” he asked. He had all the reporter’s curiosity, and
Bill Holbrook might label himself publicity expert and advertising
genius, but he was newspaper man all through.

“Here it is.”

Bullott folded the paper and pointed.


 “Sylvia. I’m calling. Be ready to pung. Green Dragon.”


“What the dickens does that mean?” asked Bill.

Mr. Bullott puffed his pipe vigorously.

“It is a _mah-jongg_ term--the Chinese game that has caught on. Green
Dragon is one of the tiles, and when a player says ‘I’m calling,’ it
means that he only wants one piece for game. To ‘pung’ is to complete
a three or a pair. Two days ago the same kind of ad. appeared, only
this time it said, ‘East Wind. Hurry.’”

“East wind?”

“The four players at _mah-jongg_ are called after the four winds. East
is the chief player. It may be an advertisement for the game. On the
other hand, it may be a code message between two silly young people.
Thank you.”

He handed the paper back, and, having acquired for the time being a
habit of loquacity, seemed loth to leave. And then Bill remembered Mr.
Toby Marsh.

“I suppose you’ve had a few queer folks through your hands at times?”
asked Bill, by way of opening.

The inspector shook his head.

“I’ve never had a real case--never arrested a man in my life--never
been in a witness-box in my life.”

Sub-Inspector Bullott made the confession with the melancholy pride
that a penitent confesses his sins.

Bill could only stare at him.

“You’ve never--oh, Lord! Why are you in the police? Wherefore the
badge and insignia of your exalted rank? A _policeman_!--I don’t
believe you.”

The inspector sighed.

“It’s a fact. A perfectly terrible memory has been my ruin,” he said.
“They took me off my beat when I was constable before I’d ever seen a
man kick a dog--why, I never so much as pinched a Percy for speeding!
I was on a dull beat where nothing happened except when it rained.”

“What happened then?” asked the unsuspecting Mr. Holbrook.

“It rained,” said the other laconically. “It was just a good-class
residential district, where they believe in hell and look forward to
the annual flower show. You know the kind. The worst crime that was
ever committed on my territory was wearing last year’s hat to a
wedding. But I’d got a trick of memorising motor-car numbers--you can
learn it. I could hold in my head four hundred numbers and tell you
who drove, man or woman, and how many passengers the flivver carried.
And one day the flying squad was out looking for Joe Stortling, the
hold-up man, and they sent round to know if anybody had seen his car.
I remembered the number, and where I had seen it. When the inspector
in charge discovered my gift, they turned me out of Brockley and put
me in Records. I know every habitual criminal that ever went inside. I
could recognise three hundred American crooks and nearly as many
French; I can read at a glance any finger-print you put in front of
me, but if I was called upon to pinch a man, I’d be more embarrassed
than the prisoner.”

Bill was regarding him in awe.

“You poor soul!” he said in a hushed voice. “I’ve met the type, but
in other spheres. You’re the Child that Never Went to a Party! Gosh!
Don’t you ever want a real honest cop, Bullott?”

To the mild blue eyes of his landlord came a strange gleam.

“Don’t I! And I’ll never get promotion any other way. But when I ask
them for a ‘street,’ they smile, and say: ‘Things have changed since
you were outside, Bullott.’ They’ve got a notion that I sleep in the
office, and have never seen a motor-car.”

Bill cogitated profoundly, his eye upon the inspector’s face.

“Can’t you break into a case--sort of get on to it before any of the
divisional police come on the spot? They wouldn’t send you away.
You’re a Yard man.”

“I suppose not,” said Mr. Bullott vaguely, as he filled his pipe.
“No, I guess they wouldn’t. As a matter of fact, the
chief--McPherson--said to me only the other day: ‘Get into any good
case, and you can have it--pick anything that comes up to your
department for identification and grab on to it,’ but, Holbrook, I
haven’t seen a case worth changing my slippers for.”

“Oh, by the way”--Bill suddenly remembered--“do you know a man named
Toby Marsh?”

“Burglar,” said the other promptly; “twice charged and once
convicted. Height sixty-five inches, spare build, light blue eyes,
wears glasses, two incisor teeth missing. Lives in Robbs Road--which
is a well-named thoroughfare for a man of his profession--Maida Vale;
uses very long words, and has a hobby for prying into other people’s
affairs. Yes, I know him.”

“So I gather,” said Bill drily. “I met him to-day. He’s a mysterious
kind of person.”

Bullott nodded.

“Yes, that’s his hobby, mystifying people. When he was caught some
years ago breaking into a City office, the only thing he said to the
officer who arrested him was: ‘Mrs. Collitt is going to get married
again; you’d better tell Collitt.’”

“And did she?” asked Bill.

“She did,” said the other grimly. “Don’t you remember the case, Mr.
Holbrook? You were on the _Dispatch-Herald_ at the time. Mrs. Collitt
ran a milliner’s business in Oxford Street--a youngish looking
woman.”

“Good Lord, yes!” gasped Bill. “Her husband disappeared, and they
found him buried under the centre flower-bed in his garden. She got a
lifer. Did Toby Marsh know all about that?”

“Months before it happened,” said Bullott. “I remember that so well,
because it was the first time I had been in a prison. I went down to
Dartmoor to interview him, but he was mum as a mummy. Why, what has he
been saying?”

He had been on the point of leaving. Now he closed the door which he
had half opened, pulled up a chair, and, under the stimulus of
interest, was galvanised into a new being.

“I couldn’t tell you what he said or what he meant, except that he
mentioned a lady’s name, and said that she was the Golden Voice of the
Absolute.”

“Golden Voice of the Absolute?” repeated Mr. Bullott slowly. “In what
connection?”

“He was talking about the Proud Sons of Ragousa--you’ve heard of
them?”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard of them,” said the other, almost impatiently.
“They’re a society which run a lottery; they have yearly and
half-yearly drawings. The society was founded by a man named Leiff
Stone, a crazy American who believes in theosophy and
ghosts--Absolute!” He smacked his knee. “Why, of course, the Golden
Voice of the Absolute would mean somebody inspired by the supreme
spirit of the universe! Now, tell me that all over again.”

He listened tensely, whilst Bill described the Ragousans’ procession
and his subsequent conversation with the burglar.

“Betty Carew--that’s the actress, isn’t it? Yes, I know her. But has
she anything to do with the Ragousans?”

“She’s never heard of them, I’ll bet,” said Bill, emphatically.

Bullott scratched his chin.

“Twenty-Third Degree? What the dickens is the Twenty-Third Degree? I’m
going to inquire into this. I’ll tell you that this man, Marsh, gets
information which never comes the way of the police. I don’t know how
he gets it--probably while he’s burgling, for he’s working all the
time, though we’ve never been able to catch him. Toby ‘smashes’ queer
places. Ordinary jewel shops and office safes are beneath him. It’s
when you hear that the Headquarters of the Sunday School Union has
been broken into that you begin to suspect Toby. Lawyers’ offices used
to be his long suit. They say he learnt enough in twelve months’ work
to keep him in luxury for the rest of his life if he’d been a
blackmailer. But Toby never ‘put the black’ on anybody, as far as I’ve
heard. He’s just burglar, talkative burglar, if you like…” He drew a
long breath. “I’d give a lot of money to know Toby’s last job!” he
said.




 CHAPTER X.
 THE DESK STORE

Dr. Laffin lived in a large and gloomy house in Camden Town. It was
a property he had bought when he came to London, and had furnished
according to his own bizarre tastes. In this house Betty Carew had
spent most of the years of her conscious childhood. She had a dim
recollection of having been brought from Bath, and of the terror that
this establishment had inspired in her youthful heart. It was a very
home of shadows and strange apparitions. You came upon great bronze
Buddhas in unexpected alcoves; hideous masks, collected from the witch
doctors of Central Africa, hung on the walls; uncouth wooden figures
of ju-jus appeared in odd corners; whilst the furnishing of the
doctor’s own sanctum might have been the habitation of some ancient
sorcerer.

On the day appointed she called at Camden Road, and found Laffin in a
condition of cold rage. And standing with him in the centre of his
strange room was a very interested man, notebook in hand--his
attention equally divided between his queer surroundings and the
narrative that the doctor was pouring out in a stream of malignant
eloquence.

“If I had seen him, there would have been one burglar less in this
world, Sergeant. Such men should be marked that they can be
recognised. I would have them blinded as the stealers of deer were
blinded in the old days; or so maimed that they carried the proof of
their villainy through eternity. Let the thieving hands be shorn from
the body… that is justice.”

“Yes, yes, Doctor.” The detectives of the Metropolitan Police are
famous alike for their patience and politeness. “I daresay that would
be an excellent idea, though the finger-print department would kick.
When did you first discover your loss?”

“Last night--late,” snapped Laffin. “But the notes might have been
taken three nights ago--I locked them in my safe at five o’clock on
that evening.”

“But something besides the notes are missing?” suggested the
detective.

“Yes, a gold statuette of Set, the Egyptian God, a cabalistic ring
reputedly worn by Darius the Great, a silver chalice used in one of
the first Eastern churches… but the notes are important.”

“What are they about?”

Dr. Laffin’s basilisk eyes seemed to burn.

“They were just notes on four sheets of paper,” he said evenly,
“notes for my play.”

Betty smothered an exclamation. His play! Joshua Laffin, who hated the
theatre and all that pertained thereto--to whom Shakespeare’s only
merit was that he belonged to the past!

“Little is to be gained by discussing the matter,” said the doctor
coldly. “The theft of those papers was a freak which shall cost this
man dear.”

“If there was nothing of value in ’em, I’m afraid that you may
consider them as destroyed,” said the detective.

His sympathy was unconvincing, thought Betty.

She stood aloof from the discussion, for, though Laffin had seen her,
he took no notice of her presence. At last the detective made his
escape, and then the old man condescended to favour her with his
attention.

“Are you ready?” he asked harshly, and without any further
preliminary put on his hat and led the way into the street.

The store had been newly furnished and reeked with the smell of drying
varnish. With the exception of the big window, which had been
carefully furnished, as he promised, to resemble a small study, the
room behind the big window was practically empty. At the back of the
shop was a smaller apartment; into this, Dr. Laffin, who had evidently
been here before, conducted her. Opening the door, she found, to her
surprise, that it was a dressing-room, furnished with mirror and
unshaded lights, whilst over the back of a chair lay a handsome
dark-green dress.

“But I can’t possibly wear that,” she said, aghast. “It is an evening
dress.”

As usual, Dr. Laffin made no reply.

“You’ll find a string of pearls on the dressing-table. Be careful with
them; they are real,” he said, in his precise way. “There is another
matter on which I have already instructed you, Elizabeth; you will
find on the desk in the shop window a small jade vase, with one red
rose. No more than one red rose must ever appear in that vase, which
must always be on your desk. Do you understand?
It--must--always--be--on--your--desk.”

The position or permanence of the rose did not for the moment interest
her.

“But I cannot wear this dress,” she said, determinedly.

He picked up the gown, looked at it disparagingly.

“We will get you another,” he said.

And then, as he was going out of the room, she stood before the door
and blocked the way.

“I am going to know what this all means,” she said; “why you are so
insistent upon my taking this position, why this store is new, and why
I am to appear in a shop window for the amusement of a Cockney crowd.
There is something in this which you have not told me.”

“There is a fortune in it; I think I have told you that,” he said.
“Further, I can make no statement. It is my whim, perhaps----”

“Then it _is_ your store?” She took the point instantly.

“And if it is?” he asked, his black eyebrows rising.

“If it is, it is not your money,” she said quietly. “You are almost
penniless. Tradesmen who know my association with you have been to see
me at the theatre. There are sheriffs’ writs against you; one of the
tradespeople told me this.”

“Who has been talking about me?” he asked sharply, forgetting for the
moment his precision of speech. “I demand his name! I will punish
him…”

“Why pretend?” she asked bitterly. “You forget that I have been
through this before, Dr. Laffin. You haven’t forgotten one week when
we were almost starving, because you had come back from Monte Carlo
with every penny of your credit pledged?”

“You know a great deal too much, my friend,” he said.

He went out, and returned with a weedy little man, whom he introduced
as the manager of the store.

“You’ll take no orders from him,” he said, in that gentleman’s
presence. “You’re practically your own mistress. You will come on duty
at eleven and go off at four o’clock in the afternoon. If the crowd
stares at you, there is no occasion for you to stare back. I will see
that nobody speaks to you when you leave the store at night, and a car
will be waiting for you to take you home.”

The first hour of her ordeal was an agony. She had been given account
books, paper, and began to write aimless letters to nobody in
particular, trying to forget the existence of the crowd which was
gathering, and which, from time to time, was moved on by a policeman.

She tried hard to concentrate her mind upon some tremendous matter; to
make up stories, pleasant and unpleasant, which would grip her
attention and make her forget the grinning faces that stared through
the glass. About Dr. Laffin and his burglary. Who had been the unlucky
thief, she wondered, or tried to wonder. It was no use. Try as she
did, most desperately hard, she could not bring her thoughts from her
humiliation. It pleased Mr. William Holbrook that morning to make a
visit of inspection.

The store that had been taken for the New Desk Company had a thirty
foot frontage on one of the most expensive thoroughfares in the West
End of London. Yet, though it was expensive, it was not, from a
shopper’s point of view, the most desirable site. The headquarters of
those corporations and houses which would be most likely to patronise
this brand-new establishment were very remote from Duke Street; and as
he came abreast of the house agent’s office, Holbrook remembered that
he had a friend at court in this establishment, and went in.

The junior partner, a man of his own age, expressed all the surprise
that Holbrook had felt.

“Why they’ve hired that shop front, heaven only knows,” he said. “As
a matter of fact, we rented it to them, and I told them at the time
that it wasn’t the best position for a concern of that kind, but they
insisted.”

“For how long have they taken the store?” asked the interested
Holbrook. “And who are ‘they’?”

“‘They’ is Dr. Laffin,” replied the agent, “and he has taken the
place for three months certain, and the right to renew for a further
period. The store, as you may guess, was already let when they
applied, and Laffin is merely the sub-tenant. The real occupiers are
not moving to Duke Street until the beginning of next year, so that
they were quite glad to rent it to these crazy people. By the way, I’m
not so sure that they are as crazy as we think; they’ve got a most
amazing display in the window--probably you saw the crowd on the
sidewalk?”

“I saw the crowd,” said Bill, “and guessed the reason. A lady is
working in the store window?”

“They say she is a very well-known actress,” he said. “I went down
and had a peep at her, and whether she can act, or whether she’s
merely a musical comedy artiste, she is most decidedly a beauty.”

Bill Holbrook grunted. Betty Carew’s beauty did not interest him as
much as the novelty of her position, and the peculiarly unsatisfactory
nature of his own--in so far as he represented Pips.

A few minutes later he stood on the outskirts of the crowd and looked
into the shop front. In the centre of the “room,” at a small and very
ordinary-looking writing-table, sat Betty Carew, and it was not
necessary for him to make personal inquiries to see that she was
intensely distressed under the stares of a London crowd.

To Betty every moment of that day had been an agony; the clock
scarcely seemed to move. She felt as if she could die of shame, and
once she half rose, determining to run away, anywhere, rather than
submit for another moment to the humiliation which had been put upon
her. Her one fear was that Clive Lowbridge should see her, and she
found her only (and dismal) amusement in the thought of what he would
do when he made the discovery.

“Miss Carew!”

She looked round. The sham door of the study was ajar, and she saw the
concerned face of William Holbrook. It needed but this last trial to
turn her misery to madness.

“Lay off, won’t you?” he begged. “I want to talk to you.”

“Please go away.” Her voice vibrated with anger. “How dare you come
and gloat over your wretched work!”

Bill glared at her in amazement.

“Woman, you’re mad!” he said. “Me--or I, as the case may be? Come
out!”

His voice was authoritative, his gesture almost imperious. Without
knowing exactly why, she obeyed him.

“Now, what’s this stuff about this being my idea?” he demanded.

“Dr. Laffin said so.”

“Dr. Laffin is a lying crow,” said Bill calmly. “He’s a prevaricating
ghoul! He called us in to run the stunt, and then did it himself. The
only thing we’ve got to do is to send out a par to the papers--he even
wrote that.”

“What is the paragraph?” she asked quickly. “About me--oh no, not
about me?”

Bill fished out a dozen envelopes from his pocket, and tore open one.

“It doesn’t mention your name,” he said, unfolding the contents.
“Listen:


                           “THE RED-HAIRED GIRL.

 “_Passers-by in Duke Street are afforded an unusual spectacle. A
 window of one of the stores in the thoroughfare has been fitted up
 like a study, and at a table-desk sits an extraordinarily pretty girl
 with hair of a most amazing red. On the desk at which she sits is a
 green jade vase containing one red rose. The lady is apparently
 advertising the desk at which she writes, but the effect is a
 singularly striking one._”


“And what good that is, except to bring a crowd, I don’t know. Not a
word about the desk. I think that doctor is--” he tapped his
forehead.

“Must this go in?” she asked, with a sinking heart.

“I hope so,” said Bill, “but the ‘must’ is a matter for a number of
city editors of divers temperamentalities. Excuse me talking like a
burglar.”

She thought that this was some catch phrase, but he went on:

“Met a regular burglar professor the other day--he talked like Roget’s
_Thesaurus_ of English Words and Phrases…”

She hoped that this hateful young man, at any rate, would go on
talking. Every second was a second’s respite from the dreadful ordeal
of the window.

“Half of ’em won’t take the par because there’s a business end to it.
Nowadays, the only way you can get free publicity about almost
anything is to kill somebody with it. But I’m going to
tell--good-morning, Doctor.”

It was Laffin, who had strode through the door, and his lips were
quivering with fury.

“Why aren’t you at your post?” he asked, quietly enough.

“Because I asked Miss Carew to come out--that’s why,” said Bill
coolly. “See here, Doctor, you’ve got me guessing.
What--is--the--grand--idea?”

“Your business--” began Laffin.

“Don’t do it, doc,” implored Bill. “I know what my business is, and
I’m attending to it; but there’s something behind this window show
that isn’t straight publicity.”

He prodded the old man’s waistcoat with an inkstained finger.

“If I wasn’t publicity, Laffin, and I was just a low-down reporter,
like I am at heart, I’d be down at Central Office at this very minute,
saying ‘Captain, I’ve got a good story--but it’s too good for
newspapers; send a sleuth, or inspector, or whatever you call your
high-class cops down to question old man Laffin, and maybe he won’t
come back alone.’”

Slowly the colour was leaving Joshua Laffin’s cheeks; from yellow to
grey, from grey to dirty white. By the time Bill had finished, the old
man’s lips were colourless.

An hour later, Bill Holbrook walked unannounced into the office of Mr.
Pawter.

“Your wish has come true, Uncle Pips,” he said.

“Are you resigning?” asked Mr. Pawter, hopefully.

Bill nodded.

“I’ve signed on with the _Dispatch-Herald_. I’m crime reporter, and
you’ll be wise not to start anything, for you’re practically at my
mercy; if it wasn’t a crime for a bald head to market Gro-Kwik
Rejuvenates Tired Follicles, I don’t know what was.”

Mr. Pawter lay back in his chair, aghast.

“Are you serious? Don’t be a fool--I’m not referring to your cheap
jest about one of the best hair preparations ever put into the hands
of the public--but about this crime reporting. Why? You’re getting a
good salary…”

“Little, but good,” corrected Bill. “No, salary doesn’t matter. Pips,
I’m on the trail of the biggest story I’ve ever smelt. And, Pips, I’m
going to do a good turn to the only policeman that has ever stepped to
the witness stand and perjured himself in a good cause.”

Mr. Pawter glanced up at the clock.

“The saloons do not open until twelve,” he said offensively. “You’ve
been drinking out of hours!”




 CHAPTER XI.
 MR. LAMBERT STONE

“No, I’m not drunk, if that is what you mean,” said Bill without
resentment. “I’m talking about a real policeman, though I admit that
there is something very unreal about him. I’ve seen Lowther of the
_Dispatch-Herald_, and he’s agreed to give me the job.”

Mr. Pawter leant back with an air of patient resignation.

“There are such things as contracts,” he said gently, “such words as
obligations, which probably do not appear in your bright lexicon. You
are perfectly serious?”

Bill nodded.

“Then there is nothing more to be said. It is such a novel experience
to find you serious about anything that I am enjoying an unusual
sensation. I shall miss you, in the same sense that a flagellant
misses a whip that is mislaid. You’re a queer, unscrupulous lad, and I
like you for it. You keep me from being respectable.”

“Let us skip the badinage and come to cases,” said Bill. “You owe me
a month’s salary.”

Mr. Pawter sighed, took a cheque-book from his drawer, and wrote
laboriously.

“Your job is open when you like to come back to it,” he said
casually, “though the thought of the way you handle this business
keeps me awake at night. What is the game, William--seriously?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Bill, and sat down.

For a quarter of an hour Mr. Pawter listened to a series of
suspicions, and, when his assistant had finished:

“Very sensational,” he said, disparagingly. “It’s queer how the
merest hint of crime arouses your imagination, which, in the
operations of this business is so conspicuously dormant. By the way,
did you see Mr. Stone?”

“Yes, I’ve got another interview with him to-day. I like his majesty
rather much. He’s a good, straight, honest citizen, deficient in only
one respect--he seemed to think there was something in your
advertising proposition.”

“Naturally,” murmured Mr. Pawter. “Fix that before you leave us,
William, and, for the first time since you have been working with me,
I shall feel that your salary hasn’t been wrung from the firm by a
confidence trick.”

Mr. Stone was not living at an hotel; he had taken a furnished flat in
Albemarle Street for the season, and it was there that Bill had found
him on the Monday morning. He was a tall, slight man, with the face of
one who lived in the open. His hair was almost white; the thin face
heavily lined; but there was a sparkle of humour which Bill had
noticed was almost inseparable from the eyes of those giants of
industry, who are sometimes labelled “captains,” and more often
“kings.”

His English valet admitted the visitor, and took him straight into the
drawing-room, which had been converted into something which was half
office and half lounge.

“Come along in, Mr. Holbrook,” said Stone. “You’re staying to
lunch?”

“Yes.”

“I have invited my brother, but I very much doubt if he’ll come.” He
laughed softly. “You’re a newspaper man, aren’t you? Or you were
before you took up advertising?” and, when Bill nodded: “I was
certain of that. One can’t mistake men of your profession; there is
something about them that is characteristic. English or American,
they’re all the same. But you’re an American?”

“I have that distinction,” said Bill. “Yes, Mr. Stone, I was a
newspaper man, and, what is more, I am a newspaper man again. In fact,
you’re the last client of Pawter’s I shall see for a very long time.”

“Going back, eh?” The keen-eyed man nodded. “You fellows can never
keep away from ink. I suppose you’re just aching for somebody to
discover a body in the river?”

He went on abruptly to the business in hand.

“This proposition of Pawter’s appeals to me. There has never been a
selling campaign for lumber in this country, and yet you’re using it
all the time. Most of it comes from Norway and Scandinavia. I don’t
see why we shouldn’t have a bigger share of the market.”

He talked wood for the best part of an hour, kept his listener working
on his amendment to Pawter’s scheme, and as suddenly as he began, he
stopped and looked at his watch.

“That fellow won’t be here,” he said. “It is ten minutes after one,
and though he has many drawbacks, he has one virtue--punctuality.”

“Does your brother live here?”

“Yes, he lives here,” he said shortly. “I haven’t seen him in ten
years, though I hear from him occasionally.”

“You have been in London before, Mr. Stone?” asked Bill, as he
unfolded his serviette.

“Yes, I know the country rather well, though I haven’t been here
since--well, since the last time I met my brother, and then I was only
in England from Wednesday to Saturday.”

“Do you like London?”

“No,” was the immediate answer. “That is hardly a fair thing to say,
because as a capital I like it immensely. It is a city of comfort and
kindness; although the English people are a little thick-headed and a
little priggish, behind all the disagreeable facets of their nature
there is a large charity and a courtesy beyond the understanding of
most folks who have only a superficial acquaintance with them. Leiff
would be an Englishman--I am talking about my brother--if he were
anything!” He smiled faintly. “There you have an instance of a genius
on the wrong track. As a newspaper man you must have met them a score
of times in the criminal courts--oh no, Leiff isn’t a criminal! He has
great gifts, but he uses them queerly. His life is rather like one of
those rivers that run into the desert and are swallowed up in the
unproductive sand. He would have made a good churchman; equally he
would have been a great historian. He has just that touch of romantic
mediævalism, which produces fascinating and inaccurate histories!”

He stared out of the window absently, and bit his lip.

“Yes, I know England,” he said, speaking half to himself. “I
sometimes wish I’d never seen the country, never put my foot upon its
shores, and sometimes I’m on my knees in gratitude that fate led me to
this land.”

He caught Bill’s fascinated eyes and laughed.

“You would like Leiff--he is one of those charming idealists that
newspaper men find so refreshing and so rare. If he has any mean
qualities, it is that touch of the theatrical, which you see in the
Sons of Ragousa----”

“The Sons of Ragousa!” gasped Bill. “What has your brother to do with
that?”

“He founded the order,” said Mr. Stone, his eyes twinkling at the
effect he had produced upon his guest. “Fifteen to twenty years ago
Leiff had his great uplift scheme, and laid down the plans for his
society. I tell you, that man is a natural born organiser. In a
business man’s office he wouldn’t be worth two cents a month. But give
him something bizarre, something fantastical, something that gives him
an opportunity of introducing the atmosphere of the middle ages, and
Leiff will work twenty-three hours out of the twenty-four, and spend
the other hour thinking. He tried to start a branch of the society on
the other side, but it didn’t work. Maybe our people aren’t gamblers,
for a gamble is at the bottom of the Ragousans’ popularity. That
annual, or semi-annual, bonus of his was the inspiration of a genius.
It got people interested in his society who never would have dreamt of
joining. He brought in every class from the highest to the lowest,
and, incidentally, got round the anti-gambling laws of England so
effectively that your Government----”

“Not my Government,” protested Bill.

“Well, the Government of England have never been able to take action
against him. Nobody knows how the fortunate recipients of the argosies
are chosen. If there is a lottery, nobody has seen the lottery drawn,
and no announcement has ever been made that it has been drawn. Twice a
year some lucky people receive a bald intimation that their number has
received a huge prize. The process of selection is not known, and by
the rules of the Proud Sons of Ragousa (I’m not so sure it isn’t part
of their oath) the method of choice is not even discussed. There is no
doubt about the _bona fides_ of the members who have benefited. But
how or why the luck should come to them is not explained.”

Again he was looking out of the window, deep in thought.

“A membership of four hundred thousand,” he said, and his lips
clicked impatiently. “What a selling organisation!”

After that the talk turned to home politics, to the depredations of
the cotton boll, and to other matters of peculiar interest to a
Southerner.

Bill Holbrook went back to his office, delivered the fruits of his
discussion (with a great deal of self-commendation, coldly received)
and hurried back to his lodgings to square up some work that he had
taken home to finish. He had forgotten his key, and when he knocked
the door was opened by Inspector Bullott, and on the police officer’s
face was an expression which Bill had never seen before.

“Hullo!” he said in surprise. “You’re home early?”

“I’ve left the office for good, I hope,” said Bullott solemnly. “The
chief has given me a roving commission, and I’m not going back to that
darned bureau until I can wear a police uniform without blushing.”

Bill held out his hand.

“Brother,” he said, “a new life has dawned for both of us. Bring up a
bottle of beer, and let’s talk murder!”




 CHAPTER XII.
 THE MAN FROM NOWHERE

It was the third day of Betty Carew’s ordeal, and she groaned as she
turned into Duke Street, and saw the little knot of curious sightseers
waiting before the store window with its drawn blinds. That morning,
almost every newspaper had published the “red-haired girl” paragraph,
with or without variations. The previous afternoon, a string of
reporters had arrived, and she had dreaded to look at the morning
newspapers. For the worst had happened; she was identified. One
newspaper had made a column story headed:


     “ACTRESS FINDS MORE LUCRATIVE OCCUPATION THAN STAGE LIFE.

 “Distress among mummers induces Miss Carew to take show-girl’s job in
 desk store.”


Another journal carried a three-column photograph of her at work.
Mercifully her back was turned, and the intervention of a plate-glass
window had made recognition impossible. She found one result of the
publicity; when she arrived there were three letters, all delivered by
hand, from theatrical managers, offering her engagements. One
undertook to produce a sketch for the road entitled “The Girl in the
Window,” with herself as the central figure. She tore up the letters
in disgust, and, bracing herself, stepped into the window and turned
her back to the crowd.

She could not go on; this thing was unenjoyable. Pulling open one of
the drawers of the desk (the difficulty she had in opening it was no
kind of advertisement for the merits of this marvellous piece of
furniture) she took out a letter. It was the “message” that was to be
delivered to the unknown caller. What would happen when he came? Would
her trial be at an end? She had asked Laffin the night before, when he
had come for her, but he had made no reply.

It was towards noon, when, out of the tail of her eye, she saw a car
come slowly up the street and stop just short of the crowd. This was
not unusual, for curiosity was not confined to the masses. She was
conscious that somebody was pushing a way through the crowd, but did
not turn her head, until somebody rapped at the window gently with the
head of an umbrella, and, turning, her face went crimson. She was
looking into the eyes of La Florette, and the smile on the dancer’s
face was maddening. Quickly she brought her attention back to the
desk, trying to forget the woman, malignantly triumphant. And then the
door of the shop opened, and there came to her the faint fragrance of
La Florette’s favourite perfume.

“How very sweet!”

The little door of the window front had been opened. La Florette,
bubbling with malicious laughter, was watching her.

Betty sprang up from her chair, and in two strides had crossed the
window floor and slammed the door behind her.

“Do you want to buy a desk?” she asked, her flaming eyes fixed on the
woman.

La Florette shrugged her thin shoulders.

“My dear, what should I do with a desk?” she asked sweetly.

“That occurred to me, but even the illiterate must have some place to
scrawl,” said Betty.

Under the rouged cheeks the colour came and went.

“You insolent little beast!” she spat. “You--you shop-girl!”

“I can’t tell you what you are,” said Betty calmly, “because the only
words I could use are forbidden in decent society. Do you want to buy
a desk?” she asked again. “If you do not, there’s the door!”

“I shall report you to your employers--” began La Florette.

“I’d almost forgive you if you would,” said Betty, so earnestly that
the woman stared. “Have you any business here at all? Because, if you
haven’t, go with the crowd, where you belong, Miss Florette, or
Simkins or Snoopper, or whatever your real name may be. All Limehouse
is outside; you can see the marks of their unpleasant fingers on the
glass. One more or less doesn’t matter to me.”

It was a long time before La Florette could articulate.

“You’re in your proper place now, Carew,” she said shrilly, “where
_you_ belong--a show-girl--an exhibition, a common advertising
woman.” She choked with rage. “I’m going outside,” she went on, “I’m
going to stand and tell people who you are, and what a rotten actress
you were. Even the newspapers say that you were such a bad actress
that you had to take this job!”

Suddenly Betty jerked open the door, caught the woman by the arm with
a grip that surprised the pseudo-French dancer, and thrust her into
the street, slamming the door behind her. And then, with no fear, no
apprehension, no qualms, Betty Carew stepped back into the window and
smiled down into the distorted face of this exotic, rooted in the
slums, and drawing her sustenance from the refuse of a Dutch ghetto.

For fully a second they looked at one another, and then La Florette
darted into the crowd, pursued by the cheers of the quick-witted
gamins who had noted her hasty exit and had divined the cause.

The second of the visitors, less welcome, came while she was eating a
hasty luncheon in the deserted showroom. She heard the quick step and
looked up into the troubled eyes of the best-looking man in London.

“Why, Clive,” she faltered, “I thought you promised me you would not
come?”

“I had to come. Did you see the papers this morning?” he asked
savagely, and, without waiting for her to reply: “This is monstrous,
Betty! I’m not going to allow it! I’ll see that old scoundrel
to-day----”

She shook her head.

“It’s perfectly useless seeing ‘the old scoundrel’!” she said, with a
little smile. “Clive, I’ve got to go through with it.”

He was stalking up and down the room, his hands tragically clasped
behind him, a frown upon his face.

“Have you seen anything of that brute from Pawter’s?”

“Holbrook?” Again her lips twitched. “I’m beginning to think he’s not
such a brute as I believed,” she said, and told him of the little
scene that had occurred between Joshua Laffin and the man from
Pawter’s. “I am sure he was speaking the truth when he said that he
had no responsibility for this freak of Dr. Laffin’s.”

“He was responsible for the paragraphs in the newspapers,” growled
Lord Lowbridge.

“He told me about them, and I believe that, if I had insisted, he
would not have circulated the story,” she said. “Clive, have you the
slightest idea why the doctor is doing this? I think I could bear the
indignity if I were performing some useful service, but we haven’t had
so much as an inquiry about the desk,” she said ruefully.

His moody eyes were surveying her.

“How long are you allowed for lunch?”

“Just as long as it takes to eat. The doctor says I mustn’t be out of
the window for more than ten minutes at a time, and that means that by
the time my engagement is through I shall have a red nose from
indigestion!”

“I suppose you’d better stick it,” he said, after a while, “though I
just hate the thought of your being turned into a puppet show. Has
anybody come for the precious message?”

“No, and I don’t think they will. I sometimes think that the doctor is
mad--for the past year he has become obsessed with his theosophical
ideas. He was always a difficult man to live with, delighting in
horrors and gloom, but since he has taken up his study of the unknown
he has become simply awful. I’m afraid I must go now, Clive,” she
said, rising. “You won’t stay and stare at me, will you? No, of course
you won’t!” She squeezed his arm affectionately. “Now go. I want you
to be well out of sight before I assume my great rôle of Diana at the
Desk!”

She could treat the matter flippantly in his presence, but when he had
gone there came a return of her despair.

She had put her watch on the desk, and there were times when she
thought that it had stopped, the hands moved so slowly. Two o’clock
came, and three. She kept her thoughts upon La Florette, the most
occupying subject of any. What a day of joy for the dancer, despite
her unceremonious exit from the scene! Betty did not doubt that the
woman would collect every friend, every acquaintance that she had, and
bring them to swell the curious throng before the window. And in this
she was not far wrong, for at that very moment La Florette was
telephoning to Van Campe, busy with the final rehearsal of the _Girl
from Morocco_, which he was sending on the road.

“I want every principal and every chorus boy and girl to go round and
take a look at Carew,” she said. “I don’t care what you’re doing;
they’ve got to break off some time. Give them an extra half-hour----”

But before the first of the theatrical contingent arrived, the crisis
had occurred.

It was nearing four o’clock, the hour at which she left her post, and
the manager had sent her in a cup of tea. She had almost become
hardened, she thought, as she sipped the hot, refreshing liquid, to
the entertainment of her audience. Drinking tea was easier than doing
nothing.

She put the cup away, and had gone back to her aimless scrawlings,
when, looking round, she saw that for the moment attention had been
diverted from her to the newest and strangest of spectators.

He was a gaunt man of middle height; his white face would have
attracted notice, even had he not chosen to appear in a black cassock
buttoned from neck to feet. His head was bare, and his hair hung over
his collar, a cascade of iron-grey. Leaning on a long staff almost his
own height, he was gazing, spell-bound, and it seemed to Betty that he
was taking in every detail of her face, her dress, her hair, the
simple ornamentation of the desk.

So startled was she by this unexpected apparition that she half-turned
to face the street, and met his gaze full. Slowly he moved toward the
door, and, looking down, she saw that his feet were bare, protected
only from the road by thin sandals that were strapped across the
instep and fastened with a leather thong about the ankle. The door
opened, and, with a thumping heart, Betty realised that the crucial
moment was at hand--that it was the man who Dr. Laffin had promised
would call, the man to whom the message was to be delivered.

With trembling fingers she took the envelope from the drawer, and,
without waiting, stepped out of the window in time to confront him. He
stared at her in silence.

“Do you want me?” she asked breathlessly.

Twice the heavy eyelids blinked.

“O wondrous day for me!” he said in a hushed tone. “Speak Golden
Voice of the Absolute, speak and tell me the hour of my death!”




 CHAPTER XIII.
 THE MESSAGE

Betty was mute. A cold sensation ran down her spine; her knees
trembled beneath her. Again the old man spoke.

“O Golden Voice of Supreme Justice, what word have you from the planes
beyond?”

She could only thrust forward the letter. It was unaddressed. In the
top left-hand corner was a queer sign which had excited her curiosity
before, and which was now to have an extraordinary effect upon her
strange visitor. No sooner did his eyes fall upon the scrawl than he
fell on his knees, and, stooping, kissed the hem of her dress.

“I have your leave to go, O Long Desired?”

She nodded, and, incapable of speech, stood, frozen to the spot, long
after the door had closed behind him.

Within ten minutes of his departure the door was flung open, and Dr.
Laffin came in. He was pale, unusually excited, betraying an agitation
which was foreign to him.

“Well, girl, what happened?” he asked, the affectation eliminated
from his voice.

“I don’t know,” she said, dully. “What does it mean… that man in the
strange dress, with the long white hair… he kissed my dress. Oh,
doctor, what does it mean?”

“You gave him the letter? You’re sure--you gave him the message?”

Laffin’s eagerness was like nothing she had ever seen in him.

“Change and come home,” he said, speaking rapidly.

“Doctor, I can’t come here any more,” she said, desperately. “I don’t
care what you do, I can’t come!”

To her amazement, he nodded.

“No, I do not want you to come again. Your work is not finished, but
it does not lie here.”

He turned to the little manager, and paralysed him with his next
announcement.

“Close this store to-morrow morning; get everything cleared out. I
engaged you for a month, and I’ll give you a month’s salary.”

“But what about selling the desks?” stammered the little man.

Dr. Laffin did not vouchsafe an answer.

The crowd had dispersed with the drawing of the window shades, and
there was no person in Duke Street curious enough to glance at her
when she came out with the doctor.

“I’ll go home on top of a ’bus, Doctor,” she said. “I have a
headache, and I----”

“You’re coming home with me, my friend,” said Laffin, who had
regained his old imperturbability. “I have something to say to you.”

“But I promised I would go to tea with Clive----”

“You’re coming home with me. Clive can wait--if by Clive you mean that
impecunious young man, Lord Lowbridge.”

She could not make a scene in the street, and nothing was to be gained
by further argument. She preceded him into the car, resolved to make
the forthcoming interview short.

The car drew up before the house in Camden Road; the doctor jumped out
and offered his hand to her; and at that moment came a horrible sense
of danger, a premonition of peril beyond her understanding.

“I don’t think I’ll go in with you, Doctor,” she said. “Can’t you get
the chauffeur to drive us round the park and say what you have to say
then? I must be home before dinner…”

“You will come inside for a few moments… no longer. I promise you I
will not keep you more than five minutes.”

Fear of making a scene induced her to yield. Without a glance to left
or right, she followed him through the badly fitting gate, and did not
so much as notice that there had been one interested spectator. Mr.
William Holbrook had both seen and heard.




 CHAPTER XIV.
 THE LOCKED ROOM

The doctor opened the door of his study, and again she hesitated.
There was no reason in the world why she should fear him any more at
that moment than she had in the past; but somehow the very atmosphere
of this house was fearful.

“You will not return to the shop, Elizabeth,” were his first words,
“and I do not doubt that you will be very pleased to know this.”

He motioned her to a chair, and with a lifetime’s habit of obedience,
she sat down.

“You will remember that a year ago, as a result of the desire
expressed by you for the privacy which, in this age of prurience and
hypocrisy, every woman regards as her due, I went to the great expense
of creating what was virtually a house within a house, a
dwelling-place in but not of my own home.”

In such magniloquent language did the doctor describe the very simple
process of fixing a door to the top landing of the house, which gave
her the floor to herself. The cost had been infinitesimal, and Laffin
had disputed every item of the carpenters’ bill. The “dwelling-place”
she had thus acquired, had been a bedroom, a bathroom, which had been
intended for the servants, two other rooms, one of which was empty,
and one containing sufficient furniture to emphasise its bareness.

“Your suite is as you left it. I have been at some pains to collect
for you the linen necessary to your comfort; there is a gas fire and a
gas ring, at which you may cook----”

“I don’t understand you, Doctor. You know that I am not returning to
the house,” she interrupted. “I am very comfortable in my own little
apartments. I thought we had settled that matter definitely?”

As usual, Laffin made no direct response.

“Before you reject an offer conceived in the very spirit of charity,
before you strike at the hand which has fed you and clothed you, which
has rescued you from the ignominy of a pauper school and the
humiliation of domestic service, child of infamous parentage, be so
good as to inspect my work of devotion and kindness, and tell me if I
have fallen short in my duty to one in whose veins runs the foul blood
of a besotted murderer.”

“Oblige me by leading the way,” he said, with over-elaborate
courtesy, and, with a shrug of her shoulders, she went before him up
the stairs, determined that nothing he could say would induce her to
remain a minute longer in that house than was absolutely necessary.

Her “suite,” as he was pleased to call it, was on the third floor.
The door at the top of the landing was locked, and, in addition, she
saw a staple and bolt which seemed to have been newly fixed.

“Do you padlock this door?” she asked.

“If you do not return, it shall be padlocked and never opened again.”

“I hope you will also throw away the key,” she said coolly, “for
these are the most dismal rooms in the house.”

There was little change in her apartment; the bed had been made up, a
fire was laid in the grate, and two or three books were on the table,
but----

“When did you have these bars put up?” She pointed to four steel rods
that barred the window.

“Quite recently,” he said.

Bedroom and bathroom were at the back of the house, overlooking a
parallelogram of disorderly gardens. She walked out of the room,
intending to go into what had been planned as her sitting-room, but
the door was locked.

“It is not my intention that you should use the rooms at the front of
the house,” said Dr. Laffin.

“It is not my intention to use any,” she answered.

To this he gave no reply, and she was so inured to his bad manners
that she did not realise that he had passed through the landing-door
until she heard it slam, and the snap of the lock as it turned.

“Let me out!” Her fists were hammering on the panel.

“You will stay until I am ready for you, my little friend.”

His voice was muffled, and only now she realised the thickness of the
door. He was fitting a padlock on the new bolt; she heard the grating
of iron against iron, and then two bolts were shot.

The first wave of her anger passed, leaving her deadly cool. The
little warning which her unconscious self had whispered, was something
more than an unreasonable fear; there was another and a more sinister
explanation for Joshua Laffin’s conduct.

The door was impossible. She went into the bedroom, opened the window
and tried to look out. The steel rods were an effective barrier to
escape, even were it possible to scale the sheer wall that dropped
fifty feet to a stone-flagged courtyard.

And then a wild hope surged in her heart, and she sprang up from the
bed on which she was sitting, and ran to the landing door. She had
heard a familiar voice below. It was Clive Lowbridge!

“Clive, Clive!” she called, and hammered with all her might on the
door. “Clive, help me!”

She listened; there came the thud of a door, and a dead silence
reigned.

To give way to hysterical fear now would be madness, she thought, and
strove to calm herself. It was not long before she had her reminder
that she had not eaten since her frugal luncheon, and she went into
the little kitchenette, where she had so often cooked surreptitious
meals in the old days, when her sole source of heat supply was one gas
burner. At the sight of the provisions on the table she grew
thoughtful. Dr. Laffin had made such preparations that she could not
doubt he expected her imprisonment to be a long one.

She finished her dinner, washed the plates and strolled back to her
room to sit down and think…

As the church bells clanged the tenth hour, Mr. William Holbrook threw
away the last of his cigarette supply and groaned. She had said in his
hearing that she would only stay a few minutes. Five hours had passed,
and the girl had not come out.

What should he do? Following the departure of the doctor, he had
knocked at the door, but his knock had gone unheeded. If Dr. Laffin
kept servants, they were beyond the sound of the summons.

Again he looked up at the window, and then:

“Pretty easy house that--to a professional, I mean,” said a voice in
his ear, and he jerked round, startled.

Toby Marsh was at his elbow--even without his thick rubber-soled
shoes, Toby had the habit of noiseless walking.




 CHAPTER XV.
 GETTING IN

“One of the lower orders, by which I mean the common or criminal
classes, would hesitate to approach a gentleman with the plain and
straightforward statement that any burglar, who had taken a lesson
from a correspondence school, would find that house as easy as opening
a box of matches,” said Mr. Marsh. “It is so simple that a
specialist, would say ‘There’s a trap.’”

“Where the devil did you come from?” asked Bill, recovering from his
surprise.

“I’ve been watching you for the last three hours,” said Mr. Marsh
calmly, “and you’ve been watching the house. There is a certain Latin
saying, which I haven’t got at my finger tips, about who shall watch
the watcher? The answer is--Hubert Francis Marsh--Toby, for short.”

Bill’s eyes had strayed to the window.

“Could you get into that room if you wanted?”

“Could I get into that room if I wanted?” Toby Marsh was amused. “I
could fall into that room from the street--if I wanted! The question
is, do I want? There is another question.” He ticked it off on the
second of his long, delicate fingers. “Why does Laffin fix bars to his
window with his own hands--being in such a hurry that he couldn’t wait
for a workman, but bought the iron himself, at Colbord & Willing’s in
Finsbury Road, and darned nearly broke his neck trying to screw ’em
in? I ask you again, why? And my answer is----”

“A lemon,” said the irritated Bill. Suddenly: “I want to talk to that
young lady. Now, how am I going to do it?”

“In other words, you want to get into that house. The only suggestion
I can make to you is that I open the door for you.”

“Could you?” asked Bill, incredulously.

“Is there anything easier?” asked the other, with an air of
weariness. “Will you resume your post of observation? And have no fear
for me; in five minutes you will see the door open. Walk right in--I
shall not be there; I am discreet.”

He dismissed his awe-stricken audience with a nod, and Bill went back
to his vigil and his doubts. One at least was set at rest four minutes
after he had returned to his post. The front door moved slightly, and,
walking across the road, he ran up the garden path, entered the hall
and closed the door behind him. There was no sign of Toby Marsh. True
to his promise in every respect, he had both opened the door and
disappeared.

Bill did not stop to consider the consequences. He waited only to get
his bearings, and then he went up the dark stairs, holding a lighted
match. Two flights he traversed, and then his further progress was
held up by a door which was heavily padlocked.

“Who is that?” said a voice on the other side.

“Holbrook,” was the answer, and she uttered a cry of thankfulness
that made the next question unnecessary.

“Has the old man locked you in?”

“Yes; can you open the door, please?”

Bill felt at the padlock.

“I can’t open it legitimately, but if you’ll wait, I’ll go down below
and see what there is.”

He was halfway down the second flight when, in an alcove, he saw in
the light of his match a hideous face glaring at him from the gloom.
It was a squat African idol, and, dropping his match, he lifted it
with some difficulty to the floor, for it was made of ironwood and was
exceptionally heavy. Nevertheless, if it could be handled from the
precarious foothold of the stairs, he guessed it would be sufficient.

“Stand away from the door,” he said. “I’m going to try to break it
in, but I’m not sure that I’ll be successful.”

Exerting all his strength, he swung back the _bête_, and brought it
with a crash against the door at the place where the padlock was
fastened. Such was the weight of his battering-ram that the hasp
snapped, but the door stood firm. He waited awhile till he had
recovered his breath, and then repeated the blow, driving the feet of
the idol at a place level with the keyhole. To his gratification, the
door burst open with a crash, and the weight of the wooden figure
overbalanced him, so that he fell almost at the girl’s feet.

“Is this housebreaking or burglary, I wonder?” he said, as he rolled
the hideous figure out of sight. “Now, young lady, if you’re
read----”

“Hurry, please hurry!” she said.

They had reached the hall, when they heard a key in the lock.

“In the study,” whispered the girl.

It was the doctor; she heard and recognised his little affected cough.

Would he go straight upstairs or make for the study? Invariably he
went to his room first. Footsteps passed the door, and she listened
intently. Was he going up the stairs? The stair carpet was so thick
that she could not hear, but after a while he coughed again, and this
time the sound came from above. Instantly they were in the passage,
and she had opened the door.

“Who is there!” It was Laffin’s voice calling them from the first
landing.

Bill swung the front door close after him with a crash, and they raced
down the path together, turned into Camden Road, and did not slacken
pace until they saw the shadowy figure of a policeman ahead of them,
and deemed it expedient not to excite his suspicions.

“Now where are you going?”

“I’m going back to my lodgings,” she said. “I can’t tell you how
grateful I am to you, Mr. Holbrook. But how did you get in?”

Bill coughed.

“A friend of mine opened the door. When I say a friend of mine,” he
explained. “I mean that he’s a--er--a professional door-opener with
whom I am acquainted. Why did he lock you up? I suppose it was
Laffin?”

She nodded.

“Yes, it was Dr. Laffin,” she said quietly, “but that is all I can
tell you. His conduct is as much of a mystery to me as it is to you. I
only know that I was terribly frightened, and that when you came
through that door I could have fallen on your neck.”

“That wasn’t at all necessary,” said Bill.

“But why did you come in? How did you know I was there?”

“I had been watching the house; in fact, I saw you arrive, and heard
you remark that you would not be longer than five minutes. At the end
of five hours I began to think that you had changed your mind.”

They walked along in silence for five minutes.

“You’re a queer man,” she said. “I think I may have been mistaken in
you.”

Bill looked at her quickly.

“Until I know what your first impressions were, I am not able to
enlighten you,” he said.

“Well, I thought you were bumptious, pushful, and--rather
thick-skinned,” she said frankly.

“That’s right,” nodded Bill, “I’m all those. If you were William K.
Holbrook you would also be bumptious and self-satisfied.”

“Did you see Lord Lowbridge?” she asked.

“Lord Lowbridge? Is that the Apollo Belvedere person. Yes, he came out
at the same time as friend Laffin. I’ll bet he isn’t laffin’ now.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“A low jest, which doesn’t bear repetition,” he said guiltily. “Yes,
I saw Lord Lowbridge. He’s the only lord I’ve ever seen that looks
like one; most of the peerage of this country are such miserable
devils that I want to pat them on the back, and say ‘Never mind.’ But
I can imagine that guy--gentleman, in a suit of armour, chasing
dragons and rescuing maidens and appropriating other people’s castles.
Now, Miss Carew,” he stopped, “I won’t go any farther with you, or I
shall lose my reputation. No man has ever associated my name with a
lady, and I don’t want any of these snooping reporters to go spreading
reports in Fleet Street about my forthcoming nuptials.”

She laughed.

“If I didn’t know you were joking, I’d be very angry with you. As it
is, I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

“Then don’t try. You’ll be doing your window-dressing act to-morrow?”

“No,” she said quietly, “that is finished.”

“Finished to-day?” His head was thrust toward her, his voice was
eager. “Finished this afternoon? Did the old man tell you that? And he
pinched you to-night--gosh!”

She was a little bewildered.

“I don’t see the connection, but it is a fact that I’m not going to
Duke Street any more.”

“Where are you staying to-night, Miss Carew?” he asked.

She gave him her address, and he jotted it down on the back of an old
envelope.

“You have money, I suppose?” he asked, and, though she smiled, she
appreciated the thought. “Now, hurry home,” he said paternally.

“Where will you go? You’re not going back?” she asked in alarm.

He nodded.

“Yes, I’m curious to see what happens.”

He waited until she was gone, and then retraced his footsteps.
Evidently something remarkable had occurred, for there was a small
crowd before the gate of Dr. Laffin’s house. The front door was open,
and in the hall lights he saw two policemen talking to a dishevelled
Laffin. Pushing through the crowd, he made his way up the steps into
the hall, and at sight of him the old man’s brows met.

“What do you want?” he demanded sharply.

“I’ve just come along to see what was the trouble,” said Bill.

All the habitual calm of Dr. Joshua Laffin had vanished; he was a
quivering, raging fury.

“What has happened!” he screamed. “I’ll tell you what has happened!
Some thief has stolen a golden buckle… worth a fortune… the diamond
and golden buckle of Isis.” He was frothing at the mouth.

Bill’s heart nearly stopped beating. Toby Marsh! The obliging burglar
had not been so disinterested as he thought.

“You get out!” The doctor yelled the words. “Officer, put that man
out; I will not have him here. What right have you…?”

One of the policemen stooped his head significantly, and Bill, who
knew the way of the blue custodians, went out meekly. He wondered
whether he should tell Bullott. Fortunately for him, Mr. Bullott was
not at home.

As he approached his house, he saw a man sitting on the doorstep, and
his figure seemed familiar.

“Why, Marsh!” he said. “How on earth did you get here?”

“Walked,” was the laconic reply. “Bullott’s out. Was there any
trouble down Camden Road?”

“I should say there was,” said Bill drily. “Marsh, I didn’t expect
you to do that sort of thing. Burglary is a serious offence.”

“So is receiving,” said Toby Marsh blandly, “if you’re talking about
that diamond buckle. It’s in your right-hand coat pocket, Mr.
Holbrook.”




 CHAPTER XVI.
 THE NOVITIATES

Bill thrust his hand into his pocket, felt something hard and sharp,
as his fingers closed over an uneven surface. When he brought his hand
forth he uttered a cry of amazement and consternation. In his hand was
a curiously shaped object, almost as big as his palm. It bore no
resemblance to a buckle, looking more like a large baggage tag, and it
was alive with flashing fires.

“Good God!” he gasped. “How did that come there?”

“I put it there,” said Mr. Marsh calmly. “I was in the study, and it
struck me that, if I walked out and ran into the hands of the coppers,
the presence of that incriminating evidence in my pocket might lead to
disastrous results, especially as I only went into the house to do you
a turn.”

“You seem to have been doing yourself a little good,” said Bill
grimly. “What would have happened to me if they’d found it in my
pocket?”

“Nothing. You’re an honest man, and if the worst had come to the worst
I should have appeared at the local police station, and made a
statement, exculpating--remember that word, which is both correct and
classy--exculpating you from any complicity. The lower orders would
describe my action as lunacy, but I not only know that I am an
altruist, but can pronounce the word. Can I see you in private?”

Bill hesitated. “Come in,” he said curtly, and took the visitor up to
his sitting-room.

“Never been in Bullott’s house before,” said Marsh, eyeing the
furnishings with a critical and approving eye. “For a man who has been
doing office work all his life, and has had none of the opportunities
for bribery and corruption which his brethren have, it is a little
remarkable that he’s got such a nice place. He’s a bachelor, of
course? If he were married he couldn’t afford this house. Personally,
I prefer the woman’s touch; and though Mrs. Hamshaw, my respected
landlady, lacks the essentials of refinement, she has connections with
the superior order, and her daughter, being one of the wealthy
classes, supplies many of her deficiencies.”

“I hate to interrupt your crackajack oration,” said Bill quietly,
“but, Marsh, what are you going to do about this interesting jewel?”

He had laid it on the table, and in the better light could admire the
exquisite workmanship of the old Egyptian craftsman who had fashioned
the lucky buckle of the goddess.

“It is exactly that matter I want to speak about,” said Mr. Marsh.
“May I smoke?”

He produced his gold cigarette case with a flourish, and, with another
flourish, opened it. Bill selected the cigarette he was offered, and
waited until the case went back to the burglar’s pocket.

“Now my suggestion is, that you take that buckle”--he spoke very
slowly and deliberately, punctuating every other word with a puff of
smoke--“and you place it in the vaults of your bank. If you have no
bank, or if, perchance, your bank has no vault, then I suggest you
should hand it to the Public Trustee.”

Bill frowned at him.

“When you have finished being comic----”

“I am not being comic at all, Mr. Holbrook,” said the other
innocently. “I am merely offering a suggestion as to the best way of
safeguarding Miss Elizabeth Carew’s property.”

“Miss Carew?”

Toby Marsh nodded.

“She isn’t aware of the fact that it is her property, and at the same
time Dr. Josh. Laffin isn’t aware that I’m aware that it is her
property. In fact, he believes that nobody in the wide world except
himself and one who shall be nameless--forgive my mysteriousness, but
that is my vice--has the least knowledge of that buckle’s existence.”

Bullott had come in; Bill heard him moving about alone.

“Marsh, do you mind if I discuss this matter with Bullott?” he asked.

“I very much mind,” was the prompt reply. “Bullott is a policeman, a
man whose mental qualities have never been completely tested. I
appreciate your difficulty, Mr. Holbrook, but Bullott isn’t going to
get you out.”

Bill weighed the buckle in his hand, and then, opening a drawer of his
desk, locked it away.

“What did you do with the paper?” asked the amazing burglar. “The
paper it was wrapped in when I put it in your pocket? I tore it from a
book in the safe, and I’d like to see it.”

Bill put his hand into his pocket, and felt a crumpled paper, which he
drew to the light. It was from an old, fine-lined exercise book, and
the writing was bold and irregular.


 “Money is life. Without money life is misery. We have only one life to
 live--every second should be consciously enjoyed. This is only
 possible if you have money. Death is untroubled sleep. Life without
 money is full of pain and irritation. There is no excuse for poverty.
 Aim at millions. A man with a million can buy a new conscience. Moral
 codes are made by monied people to keep us poor…”


“Who is the author of this thoroughly immoral philosophy?” asked
Bill, in surprise. “It doesn’t look like Laffin’s writing.”

Mr. Toby Marsh did not often smile, but his face was puckered now in a
grin of sheer enjoyment.

“To me it is as clear as the dome of St. Paul’s on a sunny day,” he
said.

Bullott was coming up the stairs, and would presently knock at the
door.

“I suppose you don’t want to see the inspector? I ask you this because
he’s liable to come up at any minute,” said Bill.

“I want to dwell in harmony with all men,” he said. “If he comes, I
shall treat him with respect. I’ve got nothing on Bullott. I’ll take
that paper, if you don’t mind.” He folded the torn page carefully,
and put it in his pocket.

“The question is whether Bullott has anything on you,” chuckled Bill,
as he heard the landlord’s knock, and opened the door to him.

Bullott comprehended the visitor in one glance.

“Good evening--brother,” he said, and there was such significance in
the word that Bill looked from one to the other.

There was a twinkle in Toby Marsh’s eye.

“We’re Sons of Ragousa, him and me,” he said. “Take my tip, Mr.
Holbrook--get in whilst the getting is cheap.”

“You’ve joined the Sons of Ragousa?”

“Proud Sons,” corrected Mr. Marsh soberly. “Yes, and the inspector
joined the same night.”

Bill looked from one to the other.

“But why?” he asked at last. “What is there about the Ragousas that
is so fascinating that it brings you two boys into the same camp?”

“The Proud Sons of Ragousa,” explained Toby, “started off with more
degrees than they had members. I believe there were forty in all. But
the ritual was a little bit too complicated, and the members difficult
to handle. To-day there are only five. There is the ordinary degree,
into which you’ll be initiated if you’re wise; there’s the High
Degree, which is a sort of district lodge; there’s the Grand Lodge
Degree; there’s the Twenty-Third; and over and above these, the priors
of the order--they’re the real swells, who give the law, fix the
ritual, distribute the argosies, and administer the order from top to
bottom. Now, you’ve got to remember this about the Ragousas--that,
when you’re clear of the Grand Lodge, you’re unknown! The Grand Lodge
doesn’t hold elections and say that this guy or that guy shall be a
member of the Twenty-Third Degree, or shall be promoted to a prior;
the men up above just notify the man they want, and automatically he
becomes one of them.”

“But surely,” interrupted Bill, “the Grand Lodge miss a familiar
face?”

Toby grinned mysteriously.

“Wait and see about that face stuff,” he said. “But you’ve put your
finger on the real mystery of the Ragousas. When you’re initiated at
the little lodge in Edgware Road, you may be in the presence of the
priors, you may be hobnobbing with members of the Twenty-Third Degree,
you may be meeting the Grand Prior himself and never know it. And the
worshipful master of the lodge wouldn’t know either. The Ragousas
accept discipline from above; there are no elections outside the lower
lodge, which chooses its own officers; and a fellow who’s been through
the chair passes back to the rank and file without any further
promotion, unless he receives a letter telling him he has been
appointed to one of the higher degrees, and giving instructions as to
where he must go and what he must do. If a man kicks, or wants some
other way of running the society, they throw him out. If he kicks
again, they get at him in such a way that they can’t be traced. He’ll
lose his job, or his landlord will throw him into the street without
notice. They’ve been known to buy a house over a man’s head in order
to get him out of his business. The discipline is fine! The kick comes
from the Twenty-Third Degree--and the Grand Master of the Twenty-Third
Degree is Joshua Laffin, Doctor of Medicines!”




 CHAPTER XVII.
 BROTHER JOHN

Betty Carew felt something more than a mental relief in the
knowledge that her nightmare experience was at an end. She awoke from
a deep, refreshing sleep, and it was significant that her first
thought was one of heartfelt gratitude that she had not to appear in
that horrible shop window.

She had hardly finished her breakfast before her landlady came into
the dining-room and announced a visitor.

Clive! She looked at the clock; it was half-past nine. Then he must
have heard what had happened.

One glance at his face confirmed this opinion.

“I’ve just come from that old devil,” he said vigorously, “and I
don’t think he’ll forget my visit! The brute! If I’d only guessed what
he had done… I thought it was strange that he hurried me out of the
house so quickly.”

She arrested an explosive view of the doctor’s conduct with a laugh.

“But why did he do it?” insisted Clive, his brow wrinkled in
perplexity.

“I hope you haven’t quarrelled with him?” she smiled. “You cannot
judge him by normal standards.”

“Maybe one of these days he will be judged by standards that will be
too normal for his health,” said Clive Lowbridge. “Betty, it
terrifies me to think that this man could have been so outrageous.
You’re not going back to the shop again? I came to insist upon that.”

“I am not going back, anyway,” she said. “The doctor has finished
with me as a show-girl. Apparently, having made me a public
exhibition, he desired to keep me for private view!”

At his request she told him what had happened since she left Duke
Street.

“Holbrook?” he said thoughtfully. “That is our advertising gentleman.
He doesn’t seem to be so objectionable as I thought. I owe him one for
that. Where is he to be found?”

She laughed softly.

“He not only did not give me his address, but he was most chary of
being seen in public with me,” she said whimsically. “Poor man! I
fear he thought I had matrimonial designs--he really is funny,
Clive.”

“I should say he was,” said the indignant Clive. “Matrimonial designs
indeed! He couldn’t even help you without being offensive. What are
you going to do, Betty?”

She told him of such plans as she had formed. She was seeing De Fell,
the theatrical manager, that day, and hoped to get a part in his new
play. He agreed, but with no enthusiasm. He was leaving, when a
thought occurred to him.

“By the way, I don’t think I should tell anybody else about Holbrook.
You know that the doctor claims he lost a very valuable buckle--worth
a fortune apparently?”

“Not the buckle of Isis?” she said in amazement.

“You knew about it, did you?” he asked quickly. “Yes, that is the
thing which has been lost. Apparently the old man has had it for some
time, and the loss is a very considerable one to him.”

“But when was it stolen?”

“Last night. He went into his study, found his safe open and the
buckle gone. That is the second burglary he has had in a week.
Obviously, if Holbrook was on the premises, he would be suspected.”

“Then whoever suspected him would be wrong,” she said promptly. “Mr.
Holbrook did not know where the study was until I pushed him in to
hide from Dr. Laffin. He may be many things, but he is not a
burglar.”

“Then how on earth did he get into the house?” he demanded.

It was a question she had asked herself, for she knew something of the
precautions which Laffin had taken to avoid a repetition of a previous
visitation.

Fortunately, she had not much time to think about things that morning.
She telephoned to De Fell at his house, and was given an appointment,
and at half-past eleven she was on the deserted stage at the
Pallodrome Theatre, waiting an opportunity to speak to the busy young
man, who was deep in conversation with a good-looking, white-haired
man, oblivious to the rehearsal which was proceeding, and which
involved a considerable amount of noise and movement, for the producer
was licking his “pony” chorus into shape. Presently he saw her,
lifted his hat and smiled, and beckoned her across to him.

“This is one of the most promising of our younger actresses,” he
said, to her surprise and pleasure. “Meet Miss Carew. Mr. Stone is an
American, who has nothing to do with the theatrical business, Miss
Carew. Also he is a confirmed bachelor, one of the richest men in
California, and a very good friend of mine.”

Betty took the proffered hand with a little smile.

“You’re not even interested in this production, Mr. Stone?” said
Betty, a little awkwardly.

“No, Miss Carew.” Lambert Stone shook his head. “This world is one
apart. And, frankly, its only merit in my eyes is its association with
De Fell.”

“That is bad news for a fortune-hunting actress,” she said with mock
solemnity. “‘Confirmed bachelor’ is a challenge to every
self-respecting woman!”

“I shouldn’t think so,” he said. “I was confirmed in my bachelordom
many years ago, but if I were shaken at all from my fixed
determination to go through life without adding to the natural
miseries of any woman, now would be the moment.”

They both laughed together, and for the time being Betty was so
absorbed in the personality of her new acquaintance that she forgot
her errand. It was De Fell who reminded her.

“I hope you haven’t come for that part, Miss Carew?” he said. “I kept
it open until last Saturday, but now it is filled.”

Seeing her crestfallen face, he asked quickly:

“Is it a matter of vital importance to you?”

“No,” she said, with a smile, “if you mean, am I without money!”

“I’m opening in eight weeks’ time at the Grand,” he said. “If you can
last till then, I will give you a really good part.”

The news was disappointing, but in a way she was glad. She had worked
without a break for seven months--she had come into _The Girl from
Fez_ from a road tour--and the month of idleness was welcome. On her
way home she decided to call at the Orpheum to collect a few of her
belongings. Happily, the theatre was empty, the rehearsals for the new
play not having started, and she packed her bag at her leisure, and
carried it downstairs to the little hall where the stage doorkeeper
kept his vigil.

“I forgot to tell you, Miss,” said the janitor, “there’s been a man
here making inquiries about you. He wanted to know where you lived,
but, of course, I couldn’t tell him that. And then he asked me if you
were any relation to Dr. Laffin.”

This was surprising, for her association with Dr. Laffin was not
generally known in the theatrical world.

“Who was he, Jones?”

“I don’t know, Miss, but he’s a very nice-spoken gentleman--a
clergyman; at least, he looks like a clergyman,” he added cautiously.

He went out to find a taxi for her, and returned with news.

“He’s waiting on the other side of the road, Miss. Do you want to see
him?”

“Who--the clergyman?” she asked, startled.




 CHAPTER XVIII.
 A SHOT IN THE STREET

She went to the door and looked out. Walking slowly along the
opposite sidewalk was a short, stout man, with a long black beard. If
he were not a clergyman, the janitor’s mistake was pardonable, for his
clothes were of the severest black, and on his head was a low-crowned
hat such as ministers wear. She thought a moment, then:

“Will you ask him to come over, Jones?” she said.

A few minutes later the stage doorkeeper returned, ushering in the
bearded stranger.

“Are you Miss Carew?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m Miss Carew. You wished to see me?”

His voice was strangely familiar. She had heard it before somewhere,
but, racking her brains, she could not recall a meeting.

“Yes, I wished to see you.” He hesitated. “My name is--” again he
paused--“Brother John. At least, I’m called Brother John by my
friends.”

He had the slightest trace of an American accent, she thought. And she
knew him! She was certain they had met somewhere, but for the life of
her she could not remember.

The janitor had discreetly retired to his box.

“You are Dr. Laffin’s ward, are you not?”

She nodded.

“And you are an actress, too, Miss Carew?”

“Yes, I am an actress,” she said, wondering what was coming next.

“Am I wrong in believing that you were the lady who appeared as lately
as yesterday in the window of a store on Duke Street?”

Betty flushed.

“Yes, I am that unfortunate individual,” she said, with a little
smile. “I hope you haven’t come to buy a desk?”

“No, Miss Carew, I have come on no such mission; but I would like to
ask you, if it is permissible--and I realise that I may be going
beyond the bounds of pertinence--why you undertook that extraordinary
work?”

Her first inclination was to return a discouraging reply, but there
was such a queer anxiety in his face that she changed her mind.

“I went there at the request of Dr. Laffin,” she said.

“Did Dr. Laffin take you into his confidence?” he asked. And then,
hastily: “I mean, do you know why you were so employed?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she answered shortly. “The only thing
I am certain about is, that in no circumstances would I again endure
such misery as I suffered during the very short time I was on
exhibition.”

“Was there… was it part of your duties to give a message to somebody
who called?” he asked.

Without hesitation she nodded.

“I fear you think that I am an impertinent man,” said Brother John,
“but this matter touches me very dearly, and involves the peace and
happiness of one for whom I have a very deep affection, and I am sure
that, when you realise this, you will forgive what may seem the
unpardonable liberty I am taking.”

“Perhaps you will tell me something?” she replied. “What was in Dr.
Laffin’s mind when he asked me to undertake that work?”

He shook his head.

“I am afraid I can’t tell you that,” he said.

“You are a priest, aren’t you?” she asked.

He shook his head sadly.

“No, Madam, I am not a priest. I was an ordained priest of the
Episcopal Church, but I was--unfrocked, for holding views which met
with the disapproval of my bishop.”

He held out his hand, and she took it.

“I am very glad that you knew nothing,” he said simply, and before
she could frame another question he was gone.

When she came out into the street she saw his broad shoulders vanish
round the corner of the block. The mystery of the desk-selling
proposition had become so intensified, that to think about it any more
was sheer madness. So she was telling herself, when a voice hailed
her, and she turned to meet Mr. William Holbrook, miraculously tidy
and presentable.

“I have been chasing you along from De Fell’s,” he said. “I wanted to
see you before that old doctor man starts asking you questions.”

“About the burglary?” she asked quickly.

Bill’s face fell. “You’ve seen him, then?”

“I haven’t seen him,” she smiled, “but I’ve seen Lord Lowbridge, and
he told me what had happened. Of course, it is too ridiculous for
words! You hadn’t an opportunity----”

“Did you mention the fact that I was in the house?” he asked
anxiously, and, when she told him she had, he whistled.

“I can see myself getting pinched,” he said.

She interrupted him.

“Mr. Holbrook,” she said, acting on a sudden impulse, “have you any
idea why I was put into that wretched window to sell desks?” And,
before he could answer, she told him of the interview she had just had
with Brother John.

Bill listened, and scratched his head.

“That is a new one,” he said. “But just tell me about that message?”

She wished now that she had not taken him into her confidence, but it
was futile to leave half the story untold, and briefly she described
the mysterious individual in sandals and cassock, who had come from
the crowd, and who had received a very commonplace letter with such
marks of reverence.

“And I’m sure I know Brother John. I’ve heard his voice before, but,
however hard I try, I cannot place him.”

Bill Holbrook thought quickly.

“Which way did Brother John go?” he asked, and, when she indicated
the direction: “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

“I can survive the contamination of your company if you can survive
mine,” said Betty drily. “Unless my memory is at fault, you objected
to my compromising society last night.”

“I was known in that neighbourhood,” said Bill, unabashed. “Here I am
a comparative stranger. Gee! I’d like to lay hands on that bearded
padre. There _is_ a big story in this stunt of the doctor’s.

“I’m going to get this story right,” he went on, and stopped
suddenly.

Ahead of him a small crowd had congregated on the sidewalk. Over the
heads of the people he saw the helmets of two policemen.

“Just one moment,” he said, and ran on ahead of her.

Pushing his way through the crowd, he came to a clear space, where a
man lay on his back, his arms outstretched, a look of peace upon his
white face.

“Shot!” said an excited voice in his ear. “Shot dead… and in the
street, too! Just a _plop!_ Shot fired from a car… used a silencer…”

One glance he gave, and then, elbowing back to the girl, he caught her
by the arm, and dragged her back to the space in the centre where the
dead man lay.

“Who is that?” he asked softly.

She looked and screamed. It was Brother John!




 CHAPTER XIX.
 THE MAN IN CHARGE

“Do you know this man, Miss?” One of the policemen was speaking.

“Yes--no,” she stammered. “I saw him a few minutes ago. He came to
the stage door of the Orpheum to see me, but I had never met him
before. Is he--is he dead?”

“I think so, Miss--the doctor will be here in a moment. Do you mind
giving me your name and address?”

Betty obeyed like one in a dream, and then, when the officer’s
interrogation was finished, Bill Holbrook’s hand tightened about her
arm, and he led her out of sight of the pitiable object that lay so
silent upon the sidewalk. Bill’s face was tense, his eyes bright.

“I told you so, I told you so!” he almost croaked. “They shot him
down as he was walking away from you! They must have been watching him
all the time.”

“But who--who?” she asked, bewildered.

“I’ll tell you that one day, and it’s a day that is not very far
ahead, Betty Carew.”

He whistled a taxi, bundled her in, and joined her, after giving
directions which revealed to her, though she was too numbed to be
astonished, that he knew where she lived, and he left her at the door
of her lodgings.

“You’ll stay in your house until I come for you, and you won’t move
out otherwise. You can take that as an order, a prayer or a polite
request, whichever you like best.”

“Yes,” she said meekly.

“There’s going to be trouble--a whole lot--for somebody, and I don’t
want you to be in it.” He was speaking rapidly. “When the police come
to question you, you’re to tell them that Brother John called to ask
you to take part in some charity entertainment.”

“But--” she began.

“Don’t ‘but’,” he said savagely. “Do as I tell you. You’ve got to
keep out of this, and you’ll only keep out if you can lie a little.
Will you promise me?”

She nodded, incapable of speech.

Holbrook’s first act, after leaving the girl, was to make his way to
the nearest telephone booth, and to call Bullott’s house. The
inspector, who had never made an arrest, must be in this case by hook
or by crook. Bullott was out, his housekeeper told him.

“Maybe you’ll find him at the Welcome Club.”

Bill tried the Welcome Club, a little rendezvous less than a mile from
the scene of the murder, and, to his amazement it was Bullott who
answered his call.

“Get down to Horsham Street as quickly as you can. There’s been a
murder committed there,” said Bill rapidly, “a real daylight
shooting--your chance! I’ll wait for you at the corner of the street;
be there in a quarter of an hour. In the meantime, I’m going along to
see the police in charge of the case, and to bluff them that you’re
already on it. Do you hear?” he asked impatiently, when Bullott did
not reply.

“I’ll be there,” said Bullott’s voice.

By the time he got back to the street where the murder was committed
the body had been moved and the street wore its normal appearance. He
made an inquiry of the first constable he met, and then hurried on to
the hospital where the mortal remains of Brother John had been taken.
As he ran up the steps, an inspector of police came out. He was known
to Bill Holbrook, and his cheery greeting encouraged him in his
purpose.

“Are you after that street murder?” he asked. “If you are, I’m not in
the case. I’ve just telephoned the Yard, and the Chief tells me he is
sending a man down.”

“You can telephone up and tell them that the man is here on the
spot,” said Bill rapidly. “Inspector Bullott has already begun his
investigations.”

“You don’t mean Bullott, of the Record Department?”

“That’s the guy I’m advertising--the greatest sleuth we’ve had on the
Thames Embankment in years,” said Bill glibly. “He practically saw
the murder committed, and went after the car. You’ll save a whole lot
of trouble, Staines, if you tip off headquarters that he’s on the
spot.”

The inspector hesitated.

“I don’t know whether I can do that on your authority--” he began.

“If you don’t do it now, you’ll have no chance of avoiding trouble,”
said Bill urgently. “You can’t have two men in charge of the case, and
you know what the Yard people are--as jealous as cats--and you’ll be
the goat.”

Reluctantly the inspector went back to the telephone, and, to his
relief, learnt that the officer who was to have been put in charge of
the case had not yet been notified. He was more surprised when he
learnt that, with extraordinary promptitude, the Chief accepted the
presence of Bullott as a normal circumstance.

A quarter of an hour later, Bill, standing at the corner of Horsham
Street, saw a taxi drive up, and Bullott jumped out to greet him.

“I’ve founded your reputation, Bullott,” said the reporter
breathlessly. “You’re in charge of this street murder case. Now,
remember this: you’ve been here ever since the shot was fired, and if
you haven’t got the number of the car, why, you ought to have!”

“The number of the car,” said Bullott, calmly, “was XQ.9743, and it
will interest you to know that I not only saw the car, but I saw the
shot fired, and if a traffic cop hadn’t held me at Holborn, I’d have
had the murderer under lock and key at this very minute.”

Bill looked at him and gasped.

“You saw the murder?” said Bill, incredulously. “You’re not pulling
one on me?”

“No, I’m telling the truth. I saw the car--a big limousine--though I
didn’t notice the parson until he was down. In fact, the shot was
fired, and the man had fallen before I guessed what had happened. It
was then that I sprinted after the machine, saw its number, and
jumping on the first taxi I overtook, chased it as far as Holborn.
Here, there was a block, and the car managed to get through just
before the east and west traffic was released by the traffic cop. It
is a hired machine from Stanbury’s, of Notting Hill, and the driver
has already reported. He says he dropped his fare near the new Bush
Building; doesn’t know him from a crow; hasn’t any idea of his name,
his address or his business. What is certain is that the car was
specially engaged to shadow the priest. It was ordered by telephone,
and the fare was picked up in Trafalgar Square--a tall man with a long
black moustache and horn-rimmed glasses--the chauffeur thinks that he
was an American. The chauffeur found the empty case of an automatic
shell between the matting and the floor of the car--we’ve something to
go on, but lordy! I’m scared, Holbrook! If I’d only overtaken that
machine, in the heat of the moment, I guess I could have arrested the
fellow without any qualms. But now…!”

His panic was not apparent to the officials who assisted him in a
search of the body. No papers of any kind were discovered; beyond a
little money and a worn copy of _Spiritual Reflections_, bearing on
the flyleaf the words “To John, from his mother,” and dated 1883,
there was nothing to identify the murdered man.

After the examination he joined Bill, who had been waiting patiently
outside the hospital, and told him the result of the search.

The young man thought it was a propitious moment to tell him of the
strange interview that Betty had had that morning with the bearded
man.

“This hasn’t got to go into your report, Bullott, because I wish that
young woman’s name kept out of the newspapers. And what she has to
tell will not help any.”

Mr. Bullott was filling his pipe, and his mild eyes fixed upon his
lodger.

“What’s she to you?” he asked.

Bill Holbrook was annoyed to the point of incoherence.




 CHAPTER XX.
 THE INITIATION

Lodge No. 1107 of the Proud Sons of Ragousa was housed in a hall
that had been an unsuccessful cinema theatre, and, having been
purchased by the Proud Sons, had, at no inconsiderable cost, been
converted to the use of the order.

As in the case of most Ragousa lodges, the outer lobby was fitted up
as a reception office. In many ways it resembled the lobby of a small
hotel, with its desks at which, under shaded lights, three men sat
writing when Bill Holbrook arrived that evening. The whole proceedings
were most businesslike, he thought, as he sat down to read and fill in
the blank that was given him.

It was a most innocuous document, in which he had to write his name,
address and profession, and to sign a declaration that he would abide
by the rules of the Order, and agreed to accept dismissal from its
membership if he transgressed the governing laws.

“That will cost you two pounds,” said the official briskly, when he
returned the blank, “one pound half-yearly subscription and one pound
for your robe. Your number is H.74--remember to tell the worshipful
keeper of the robes that. Now, sir, if you will knock at that door,
two of the brethren will prepare you for the initiation--yours is the
only one to-night.”

At the far end of the vestibule was a double door of polished wood,
and on this Holbrook knocked. The doors opened instantly, and for a
second he was so startled by what he saw that he made no move. Two men
were standing in the inner hall, which was in darkness except for two
lamps hanging from the ceiling, which gave so faint a light that they
only served to emphasise the gloom. The men were dressed from head to
foot in black; their heads were covered by cowls, and over each face
was a loose black covering. Only the eyes showed through long slits.

“Enter, Brother-to-be,” said one in a shrill, Cockney voice, and the
door closed behind him.

The man who had spoken was carrying something over his arm.

“Put this on,” he said, and Bill saw that it was a robe similar to
those they wore.

In a minute he was covered, the cowl drawn over his head, and the eye
apertures adjusted.

“Speak now, stranger, on the threshold of our mysteries: by land and
water, by the air and the spaces beneath the earth, do you seek the
brotherhood of our noble order with a pure heart and a desire to serve
humanity? Answer ‘I do.’”

The second man gabbled the question mechanically.

“I do,” said Bill.

The man struck three times upon an inner door.

“Who comes?” asked a deep voice.

“A strange mariner for our argosies,” was the reply.

“Enter, Son-to-be,” said the voice.

The big hall into which Bill walked between his guardians was as dimly
illuminated as the outer room. Ranged round the walls on chairs he saw
line after line of cowled figures. At one end of the room was a raised
daïs, where three figures sat behind a table. Facing them, and at the
opposite end of the room, sat a solitary man. Except for the robes and
the cowls, Holbrook had anticipated the lay-out of the lodge. On the
table before the three was a small silver ship of ancient design. It
evidently stood upon a sheet of glass beneath which was a concealed
light, for its sails glittered brilliantly.

Bill was led to the solitary figure, and there began the initiation
service. He was charged to be a true Son of Ragousa, “fearless in
danger, keen in enterprise, thrifty in prosperity,” and, prompted by
his conductors, he made the conventional replies. From the Captain of
the Lodge, as he discovered this officer to be, he was taken to the
three, and there received what was obviously the key instruction--the
order of obedience. At last it was over, and he was shown to a chair
that had been left vacant on one side of the hall, and became
thereafter an interested audience to the discussion of lodge business.
Who were his right or left hand neighbours, he could not guess.

The discussion that followed bored him; an exchange between the chair
and one of the orators of the lodge on what was and what was not true
philanthropy. The arguments were feeble, the speeches poor in the
extreme, and he was relieved when, rising in his place, the Captain of
the Lodge lifted his hands in benediction, and chanted:

“To all Proud Sons of Ragousa, to all officers of lodges, to the noble
members of the High Degree, to the exalted brethren of the Grand
Lodge, to the most reverend and puissant Priors, and to the most
exalted, noble and holy Grand Prior, dedicate we our lives and faiths,
our hopes and services.”

There was no mention of the Twenty-Third Degree, Bill noticed, and
wondered what was the explanation for so notable an omission.

The members filed out in silence, not the way by which he had come,
but to a disrobing room. This was in complete darkness. As every man
stepped into the little lobby, he slipped off his coat and cowl and
handed it to some hidden person, giving his number.

He took his place at the end of the slow-moving queue, and had nearly
reached the door, when somebody tapped him on the shoulder, and he
turned to look into a cowled face.

“In the name of the Prior,” said the figure in a low voice. “The
Grand Lodge has need of you. You will be at the third milestone on the
Epping Road at eleven o’clock on Sunday night.”

He pressed a paper into the hand of the astonished reporter, and
without another word walked swiftly past the waiting queue into the
dark room.

When Bill came out through the side entrance of the lodge, he found
Toby Marsh pacing the sidewalk.

“Well, what do you think of it--brother?”

“I have attended hangings that have been more cheerful,” said Bill.

“Hear anything about the Twenty-Third Degree?” he asked.

“No, it was not mentioned. Why is that?”

“The Twenty-Third is _tabu_ amongst the Sons--it is the punishing
degree, and is never mentioned. And yet there were at least two men
there to-night who were Twenty-Thirders until last week--fired, boy!”

“Fired?”

“Reduced from the Twenty-Third to the First. That’s the way of the
Ragousas; you never know whether you’re up or whether you’re down.”

“My own promotion has been so rapid that I’m dizzy,” said Bill, and
told him of his appointment to the Grand Lodge.

Toby’s face was serious. “That’s quick!” he said. “Where are they to
pick you up?”

“At the third milestone on the Epping Road, wherever that may be,”
said Bill, “but probably there are more instructions here.”

He stopped under a street-lamp, and unrolled the little scrap of paper
he still held in his hand. He looked and uttered an exclamation. The
paper was a banknote for a hundred pounds!




 CHAPTER XXI.
 JENNY HAMSHAW

“Nobody knows anything. Who are the members of the Grand Lodge,
where it holds its meetings, who are the Twenty-Thirders, and why. The
only thing the poor simps are sure about is that twice a year there is
money for nothing for somebody. And for the rest, they’re satisfied to
go on gripping and passwording and secret-signing, and singing their
silly songs, and rooting for their silly lodges,” said Toby Marsh.

“Who does know?” asked Inspector Bullott, taking his pipe from his
mouth.

“The Grand Prior, and nobody else,” said Toby promptly. “I’ve been
into this because I thought it was good graft. I’ve nosed and I’ve
pried, and I’ve brought the Sons of Ragousa down to the Book of the
Law.”

“What the devil is the Book of the Law?” asked the astonished police
officer.

“It’s a book that has the ritual and system of the Ragousas written
down to the last dot. The Grand Prior wrote it, and the Grand Prior
has it. When the Grand Prior dies, it will be handed over to the new
Grand Prior. That is the story I’ve heard, and it sounds true.”

“Is there any graft in it at all?” asked Bill.

Toby Marsh shook his head.

“No; that is the surprising thing about the Ragousas. It’s an
honest-to-heaven society; does a whole lot of good, builds cottage
hospitals for seamen, donates lifeboats--most of its lodges are in
maritime towns, and, I suppose, a third of its membership is made up
of sailors--it runs an orphanage at Newcastle, and a home for old
sailors at Gosport. They’re certainly tough with members who get fresh
or who defy their rules, but so far as I know, even in this they have
never broken a law. There have been no whippings or burnings, and I
haven’t been able to trace an old Ragousa that has been ridden out of
town on a rail. Oh yes, they’re all right, only--” he shook his head.

“Only what?” asked Bill.

“Only I don’t understand old man Laffin being chief of the
Twenty-Third Degree. That isn’t right to me.”

Inspector Bullott was thoughtfully puffing at his pipe.

“I’ve been thinking over this murder,” he said. “Does it strike you
that Brother John may have offended the Ragousas?”

Toby Marsh did not scoff at the idea.

“I don’t know,” he said, rising; “it’s a queer… ’Scuse me, folks,
I’ve got an appointment on the right side of the law. Know Jenny
Hamshaw? You’ve missed sump’n’…!”

There were two subjects very dear to the heart of Mrs. Caroline
Hamshaw. The first of these, the super-excellent qualities of heart
and brain in her only child; the second, Murder as a Fine Art.

When she was not extolling the virtues of her daughter and her social
triumphs, her generosity, her sweetness of disposition and her amazing
exclusiveness, she was supplying her audience with details of crimes
which had evidently been objects of intensive study.

It had been Mrs. Hamshaw’s fortune as a girl to give evidence in a
veritable murder trial, and this experience was probably responsible
for the interest she took in crime thereafter.

She had one paying guest, to the presence of whom her high-class
daughter offered no objection; for, despite her mother’s encomiums,
Miss Hamshaw was by nature mean, and had exact ideas about the value
of money, and Mr. Toby Marsh paid regularly and never grumbled about
extras.

Miss Hamshaw’s rigid view on economy was, if the truth be told, the
skeleton in her mother’s cupboard, and on the evening Bill Holbrook
was initiated into the full membership of the Proud Sons of Ragousa,
the elder lady, a stout, morose woman with a strong facial resemblance
to the late Queen Victoria, sat with her plump hands folded and a tear
trickling down her large nose, listening with proper humility to the
admonitions of her child.

“I’m not made of money, Mother; and really, I think I’m doing enough
for you. I’ve given you this house--at least, I let you live rent
free--and I’ve spent hundreds on furniture, _and_ I’m allowing you
three pounds a week.”

Mrs. Hamshaw murmured something about the high cost of living, and was
snapped to silence.

“I haven’t had an engagement this past six months--where do you think
I get the money from? Why don’t you get another boarder? I suppose,
because you see ‘La Florette’ in big letters on the billboards, you
think I’m a millionaire--but salaries are not what they were, and what
with my flat and my car and what not, I have a struggle to make both
ends meet.”

“I’m sure I do my best to make the money go round,” said Mrs. Hamshaw
gloomily. “There are times when I wonder whether I wouldn’t be better
off if I was dead and in my grave.”

To which suggestion Florette made no helpful reply.

“Mr. Marsh wouldn’t like another boarder,” the old woman went on,
“and I don’t know that I could be bothered. I’m not so young as I was.
When I was a girl in Bath working for the Carens--him that murdered
his wife, and----”

“Don’t give us any horrors,” begged Florette, well acquainted with
her mother’s weakness. “I know all about Caren.”

“The child went to the workhouse, and a doctor adopted her--Dr.--now,
what was his name? He called her Carew--Laffin, that was it!--What’s
wrong, my love?”

La Florette was staring at her mother.

“Carew--what was her first name?”

“Elizabeth; a pretty little thing with red hair. It’s a funny thing
about her, that she wasn’t Caren’s child at all. I knew everything
about it.…”

The girl was listening, open-mouthed.

“A middle-aged man, Mr. Leiff Something--I remember the ‘Leiff’
because it was unusual. He married a young girl, and left her with the
Carens, when he went back to America… he was American. He got ill and
couldn’t come back, and a week after the baby was born her mother
died. Mrs. Caren never had a child, and she got so fond of the little
mite that, when Mr. Leiff… Stone! That’s the name! When he cabled to
ask what had happened, Mrs. Caren said that they were both dead,
mother and child. She used to cry about the lie she told, and robbing
the baby out of a good home. Mr. Leiff What’s-his-name… Stone, that’s
it… well, he was rich--they say the news turned him crazy----”

La Florette, started up, her eyes blazing.

“Mother, you’re not to tell this to anybody in the world, do you hear?
Betty Carew has got to stay the daughter of a murderer, and that’s
what everybody has got to know----”

A gentle cough behind her made her turn her head.

Mr. Toby Marsh, hat in hand, stood in the doorway, an apologetic smile
on his face.




 CHAPTER XXII.
 DR. LAFFIN’S OFFER

“I hope,” said Mr. Marsh, unconsciously paraphrasing the remarks of
a great literary character, “I hope I don’t intrude?”

“Come in, Mr. Marsh,” said La Florette, reacting instantly to the
admiring glance of the newcomer. “My mater and I were having a little
pow-wow.”

“If it’s a family conference--” began Toby, with gentlemanly
delicacy.

“No--come in. Mother and I were discussing ways and means. You’ll
quite understand my position; naturally I don’t wish mater to take
boarders, not ordinary boarders; I shouldn’t like people in my set to
know that she took boarders at all.”

“Naturally,” murmured the lodger.

“But this is what they call in the newspapers the age of--what is the
word? It begins with D?”

“Democracy?” suggested Toby correctly.

“That’s the word; we’ve got to do something to keep the wolf from the
door. The mater says that you wouldn’t like to see another boarder
here?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I shouldn’t,” he said. “Being in the
Government service” (this was Toby Marsh’s favourite piece of
fiction) “a sort of secret service, if you understand, I couldn’t
afford to have anybody prying and spying around my documents. And
another thing, Miss Florette, you can trust me, being a man of
discretion, if I may use the expression, but could you trust some
stranger…? I shouldn’t like to know that anybody went round saying
that he was boarding with the great La Florette’s mother.”

Florette bit her lip thoughtfully. She was interested in other
matters, yet gave the impression of being wholly absorbed in this
domestic problem.

“I think you’re right, Mr. Marsh,” she said at last, with a dazzling
smile. “It wouldn’t be a good thing. Please think no more about it.”

As soon as she could get away from the house she hurried back to Van
Campe, her confidant in most matters, though she had decided in the
present case to keep her own counsel. Still, he might help.

She got back to the theatre where he had his office, and, opening the
door without knocking, walked in--and stopped. Mr. Van Campe had a
visitor. A funereal figure rose slowly from the table and turned his
dark eyes upon her, and for a second she was nonplussed.

“Why--why, Dr. Laffin!” she stammered. “I didn’t expect to find you
here.”

“I have been talking to Mr. Van Campe,” he said, “and, curiously
enough, young lady, about your good self.”

“About me?”

In her surprise she forgot her tremendous discovery.

“Is zat so?” she lisped, returning to her public rôle of exiled
Frenchwoman. “Zat is extraordinaire!”

Laffin was looking at her thoughtfully.

“You may think that the suggestion I have made to Mr. Van Campe is
fantastical, bizarre, but I beg that you will not too lightly dismiss
the scheme I have put before our friend.”

Before she realised that he was on the point of departure, with a
little nod he was gone.

“What was he doing here?” she asked, when the door had closed upon
the visitor. “And what is this scheme of his?”

“I can’t understand that guy,” he said. “He came in to see me about
getting an engagement for Carew, and I told him frankly that I was
thinking of putting you into the cast--which of course I’m not--and
that there wasn’t room in the same theatre for you and the girl. I
bragged a bit about your Continental reputation, and told him you
mixed with the best people in town. In fact, I happened to mention
that you dined last night with those two men from the Treasury. And
then, before I knew what was happening, he had asked me whether I
thought you would help him in a scheme of his.”

“A scheme?” she said, frowning. “What is it--a theatrical scheme?”

“No, that’s the funny thing about it,” said Van Campe, shaking his
head. “He wants to take a furnished house in the West End--he
suggested Portman Place--put you into it, make you an unlimited
allowance, the idea being that you give parties.”

“To which he shall be invited, I suppose?” said La Florette
sarcastically. “Nothing doing, Campe!”

“No, he didn’t even ask that,” said Van Campe. “In fact, he told me
he would not ask to be received. He said all that he wanted was a
little information about the stock market which might come to you.”

“He’s crazy, if that’s all he wants,” she said. “I can give him a
whole lot of information that I got out of this morning’s papers!”

Van Campe was looking thoughtful.

“I didn’t like it at first,” he said, “but the more I think of it,
the bigger opportunity it seems. You are badly in need of boost, and
that kind of social boost is the best thing that can come to you.
Besides which, there’s nothing unusual in his suggestion. I know a
family, and a good class family, too, that is supported by a
stockbroker for the information they can collect from their parties.
Think it over.” And then: “What brought you here so late at night?”

She immediately recalled the object of her visit.

“Campe, you know everybody in town--who is Leiff Stone?”

“Leiff Stone? The name seems familiar. There’s a Lambert Stone, an
American millionaire who is a friend of De Fell’s. But Leiff is a new
one on me. Why?”

She was not prepared to enlighten him apparently.

“Couldn’t you ask De Fell? He knows the American crowd very well, and
if he’s a friend of Lambert Stone, he’d get to find out. Maybe it is
some relation?”

Van Campe jotted down the name on his blotting-pad, and nodded.

“I’ll see him in the morning,” he said; “and now, if you don’t mind,
I’ve got an hour’s work to do before I can leave this darned office.
I’ve had the police here all day, making inquiries about that street
murder.”

“Here?” she said, in amazement.

“Yes; it appears that the murdered man called at the stage door this
morning to see Carew, and found her. She’d come to the theatre for her
make-up box. I was telling Laffin about it, but that didn’t mean
anything to him. I guess he wouldn’t really worry if the girl was
pinched.”

“I know somebody else who feels exactly the same way,” said La
Florette grimly.




 CHAPTER XXIII.
 GONE!

La Florette was hardly out of the house before Toby Marsh had
followed her. He saw the lights of her car turn the corner, and
regretted that he had not the same form of transportation, for he was
in a desperate hurry.

There was no light in Bullott’s parlour, but his continuous knocking
brought Bill Holbrook, clad sketchily in a dressing-gown and his
pyjamas.

“Come right in. Bullott’s not at home. What’s the hurry? Have they
found the murderer? Bullott is a pathetic spectacle--did I tell you
that this was his first case?” he asked, as he preceded the visitor
up the stairs.

So naturally had events followed one another that it did not seem
strange to Bill, even at that moment, that he should be entertaining a
notable member of the criminal classes. Toby Marsh more than
interested him. The mysteries of the man were fascinating.

“Who is Betty Carew?” asked Toby, when they had reached the
sitting-room, and Bill had turned on the lights and drawn down the
window shades.

“Who is Betty Carew?” said the astonished reporter. “The last time I
heard of her, she was Betty Carew!”

“You told me to-day that old man Laffin had a hold on her, and I’ve
discovered what it is,” said Toby Marsh, speaking rapidly. “She is
supposed to be the daughter of a man named Caren, who was executed for
the murder of his wife. I didn’t know that till to-night.”

Bill gaped at him, but Toby did not pause.

“Laffin adopted her when she was a kid, and I’ll bet he’s never
stopped telling her about her grisly past.”

“But is it true?”

“I wish you’d known all about it before,” said Mr. Marsh regretfully,
“and then I’d have created a bigger sensation when I told you it
wasn’t true! She’s the daughter of an American who came to this
country, married and was called back home, leaving his wife in the
care of Mrs. Caren. The American was taken ill, and, for some reason
or other, did not communicate with his young wife until after the baby
was born, when he learnt that wife and child had both died. Apparently
the woman in whose care she had been left had grown to like the baby,
and did not want to be parted from her. That is only the skeleton of
the story, but the man’s name was Leiff Stone.”

Bill leapt up from his chair.

“Leiff? Why, that’s Lambert Stone’s brother! Then Betty Carew is his
niece! Moses!”

“Leiff doesn’t mean anything to me, and Lambert means less,” said
Toby Marsh, but the other interrupted him with a demand for his source
of information.

“They say that listeners hear no good of themselves,” began Toby,
“which may or may not be true. They certainly hear a whole lot that’s
bad about other people; and though eavesdropping is repugnant to
me----”

Presently Bill had the story as far as his informant could tell him.

“Wait here. We’ll go round and see Stone right away,” he said, and
dashed off to his room to dress.

He returned in a miraculously short space of time.

They found Lambert Stone, who had just returned from the theatre, and
in a few brief words Bill told him all that they had learnt.

“It sounds true,” he said. “All the circumstances fit. I know Leiff
did marry a girl here, and that he came back to America at about the
time of his daughter’s birth. I also know that he left her in Bath.”

“Was he ill in America?” asked Bill, and Stone nodded.

“It happened at sea,” he said. “The ship ran into a gale, and Leiff
was thrown down a companionway on to his head; there was a bad
concussion, and practically he did not regain consciousness until
after he arrived in New York, and then his condition was so serious
that we thought he had lost his mind. It was six months before he
became normal. He never told me the name of the people with whom he
left his wife, but I know that a letter came saying that she was dead,
and I can well remember the terrible time we had. I’ve hated myself
ever since, because it was I who brought him to England, and through
my instrumentality that he was introduced to the woman, who eventually
became his wife. Betty Carew! Why, I met her only to-day! The story is
true--I feel it. And verification is fairly easy; she would have been
registered in her father’s name within a few days of her birth, before
Mrs. Caren could have ever dreamt of her scheme of deception. Poor
soul! Do you know where my--my niece lives?”

Bill nodded.

“I must see her to-night.”

It was near midnight when they stopped before the house where Betty
lived, and Bill rang the bell, expecting that it would be some time
before he received an answer. To his surprise, the landlady opened the
door almost immediately.

“Is that Miss Carew?” she asked, peering out into the dark.

A premonition of danger quickened the reporter’s pulse.

“Isn’t she at home?” he asked.

“No, sir. I can’t understand it. I came home about half an hour ago,
and found the table in the hall broke--look!” She pointed to the
wreckage of a small table. “Miss Carew’s room was empty. She’d been to
bed, too.”

Bill flew up the stairs, and into the room, which instinct told him
was the girl’s. The bedclothes were thrown on the floor, and here too
a small table had been overturned. There was no other sign of a
struggle.

“Perhaps somebody came for her?” suggested the landlady.

“I think they did,” said Bill, speaking slowly.

He looked round at the serious face of Lambert Stone.

“What do you think?” asked the American in a low voice.

“I think the mystery of the desk-selling campaign and the locked room
on the top floor of Laffin’s house, has been continued for yet another
chapter,” he said.




 CHAPTER XXIV.
 THE DREAM

Despite all the precautions that Bill had taken, Betty Carew had
been interviewed twice by the police that afternoon--interviews which,
however, were completely unsatisfactory as she had not seen Brother
John before, and (in response to an urgent note that had come to her
from Bill when he discovered that he could not prevent a police visit)
she had said nothing about Laffin or the message.

In the evening Clive Lowbridge called for her with his big car, and
drove her into the country.

Clive was remarkably taciturn during the trip, and she was not sorry,
though she found herself ruminating upon his silence and seeking a
cause, for he had come to her that evening in his most cheerful mood.

“Yes… it is this infernal murder,” he said, when on the way home she
suggested a cause. “I hate your being even remotely mixed up in it.
What time did this happen?”

“About noon.”

“Thank heaven!--don’t look so shocked. I’m not thanking heaven for
this poor creature’s death, but for--well, I was with the doctor from
eleven till one o’clock.”

“But what has the doctor to do with it?” she demanded, aghast.

“Nothing; only he’s such a queer fellow, and the fact that Father
John--Brother John, was it?--mentioned him, set my mind working all
ways. I don’t understand Laffin, never did. Perhaps he’s mad. You
haven’t seen him to-day?”

“No, Clive.”

“I’ve had a long talk with him. He said nothing when I roasted him
about locking you up. You know his masterly silences? When he did
condescend to talk, it was to suggest that I should go to America and
look for a rich bride! He has the queerest ideas about American
people; thinks that heiresses line the quay waiting for eligible
lords! I tried to get it into his head that the modern American
father, unless he’s a hopelessly vulgar brute, thinks first of his
daughter’s happiness, and then looks round for a decent American boy.
Laffin has never lost the tutorial pose--his superiority is most
offensive.”

“Are you very poor, Clive?” she asked sympathetically.

“Miserably,” said he. “I keep a valet to tell creditors that I’m not
at home!” He laughed softly. “And I thought all my troubles were over
when I succeeded to this wretched title!”

He sent the car whizzing between two heavy lorries, and made it, with
a few inches to spare--Betty jumped in alarm.

They returned to town as the last light of day was lingering palely in
the sky, and stopped before the little house where she had her
lodging. The place was in darkness, and, after a brief tour of the
house, she returned to the sidewalk.

“I can’t ask you to come in,” she said; “my landlady is not at home.
Good-night, and thank you, Clive.”

She had a splitting headache, and was glad to carry the glass of milk
she found waiting for her in the hall to her room; doubly glad to
swallow the aspirin they had bought at a chemist on the outskirts of
London, gladdest of all to snuggle her head into the pillow and feel
herself sinking, sinking, into that delicious languor, which precedes
the oblivion of sleep.

She had dreams, fitful, aching dreams that changed with every throb of
head. Dreams of Clive and Dr. Laffin, and the still figure stretched
on the sidewalk. Fantastic dreams of an untidy reporter stroking her
face tenderly. She struggled to move her head… wondered if his fingers
were still ink-stained… felt hot lips pressing hers, and fought
somebody back. And over and through all her unhappy imaginings was a
low drone of sound and a queer vibration of movement.

Now she was back on Dartmoor and a cowled face was looking down into
hers. She saw it loom from the darkness, black against black, and the
glint of eyes.

She moaned in her sleep and tried to turn, but the bed had grown
unaccountably narrow and hard and sagged in the middle so that she was
imprisoned within its sides.

It was the queerest dream, for once she heard a long discussion about
what was and what was not the right road, and she saw the flash of a
lantern and heard a man cursing softly.

“The reporter and a man… came half an hour after…”

Somebody had telephoned--she could not catch the name.

After that she felt a cold hand touch hers, and the sharp prick of a
needle above her wrist. She struggled desperately to rouse herself
from her sleep, but the scream died in her throat, and then she slept
dreamlessly.

Her room was still pitch dark when she came to consciousness, but the
bed was bigger--wider than her own. Putting out her hand toward the
table where the candle was, she found nothing.

“I’m still dreaming,” she murmured, and lay for a long time debating
whether she should make an effort to wake or continue her sleep.

By the time she had decided, she was sitting in a high-backed chair,
looking stupidly from left to right.

She was in a chapel, high-roofed, dimly lit. Facing her was a white
altar. Two large candles glowed in golden sconces, and that, it
seemed, was all the light there was.

Flanking the altar were two lines of stalls, massively carved, and
above each stall was a banner, heavily embroidered with gold. She
caught the dull glitter of the bullion in the faint golden light of
the candle, and saw that the stalls were occupied. In each there sat a
black cowled figure, motionless but not silent.

She looked down; she was dressed in white--her feet were bare, and
across her knees was a crimson stole.

The cowled figures were chanting something, a drone of sound that
seemed to be tuneless, until she remembered. Years before she had
attended a recital of old English music, and had heard a quaint dirge
that the lecturer had told her was the Song of Triumph, composed in
honour of Henry’s victory at Agincourt. It was that they were singing…
the words were indistinguishable.

“O revealed!”

Midway between her and the altar was a man in a long violet gown, his
head and face covered, as were the others, by a hood. But she knew the
voice, could have sworn to it--the voice of the old man who had come
to her at the store. The Man of the Message!

“Into your hands I deliver The Law, divine Messenger of the Absolute!
Write, that the law shall be complete and the gap of the circle
filled!”

She heard a murmur by her side, and turned her throbbing head. Left
and right of her stood two black-gowned men.

Something heavy was laid on her knees. It was a thick brown book, and
instinctively she grasped it. Why, she did not know. Perhaps it was
slipping from her.

“Hold it… hold it to your breast!” hissed a voice in her ear, and
mechanically she obeyed.

The cowled men were filing out. She heard the swish and shuffle of
sandals on the stone floor and the deep-throated discordances of the
ancient hymn… And now she was alone--alone save for the two cowled
figures.

“Rise!” The order came sharply.

They took her by the arm, and slowly paced by her side. Through a
narrow doorway, along a cold passage. Rattle and clang of bars and
bolts, and another door opened.

They were in the open… the fresh night winds played against her cheek.

“I want to wake up!” she cried wildly, and remembered no more.

When she opened her eyes the first thing she saw was the drawn face of
Bill Holbrook. He was standing at the foot of her bed, and she noticed
that his waistcoat was buttoned in the wrong holes, giving him a
grotesquely lopsided appearance.

“Oh, you’re in it, too, are you?” she asked faintly. “But you mustn’t
kiss me. I don’t like people kissing me, Mr. Holbrook!”

A second man was bending over her, a grey-haired man who wore large
horn-rimmed spectacles.

“Headache?” he asked.

“A little--not much. Where am I now?”

“You’re in hospital now,” he said. “Do you feel strong enough to tell
us how you got to Clapham Common in the middle of last night?”

She opened her eyes wide. She was awake--her mind was very clear.

“What day is it?”

“Thursday,” was the reply.

It was on Tuesday night that she had gone to bed!




 CHAPTER XXV.
 BETTY DOES NOT REMEMBER

It was not till a day later that Betty learnt of the extraordinary
circumstances under which she was found. A police patrol, who crossed
Clapham Common just before daybreak, saw a figure stretched on the
grass, and, thinking it was a sleeping vagrant, stepped over the low
rails that separated the path from the grass-land, and walked toward
it, flashing his lamp upon what appeared to be a big bundle of rugs.

Not the least remarkable feature of the discovery was that, not only
was the girl, as it proved to be, swathed in blankets and lying upon a
hospital stretcher, but in order to ensure her safety, the rugs
enclosed rubber water bottles, which were still hot when she was
found. The policeman had called up an ambulance, and Betty had been
transferred to the nearest hospital.

“I suppose my disappearance is in all the papers?” she said ruefully.
“I am beginning to suspect you of an intensive publicity campaign, Mr.
Holbrook!”

“That isn’t the kind of publicity you’d get from me, Miss Carew,” he
said quietly. “You are sure you remember nothing?”

“No, nothing.” She was emphatic on that point. “I had some queer
dreams, but I remember nothing after lying down in my bed, until I
woke yesterday in the hospital.”

This time Bullott was present at the interview.

“Did you drink anything before you lay down?” he asked.

“Some milk,” she said. “My landlady generally leaves me a glass in
the hall.”

“That, of course, could have been got at if the people were waiting
for you in the house, as I suspect they were.”

He had found that the landlady was got out of the way by the simple
process of sending her a reserved stall for the Lyceum. A messenger
boy had brought it in that afternoon.

“Does Dr. Laffin know?” she asked quickly.

“He has been told, but he is not very much interested,” said Bill.
“He said that he thought you would turn up sooner or later.”

“Mr. Holbrook,” she said, just before he went, “was I dreaming last
night, or did Mr. Lambert Stone see me?”

“You weren’t dreaming this time. And, Miss Carew, you’re going to tell
me something about those dreams of yours, aren’t you, when you’re well
enough?”

“I’ll try; they were extraordinary. I don’t even know now whether they
were real or imaginary.”

“If there was any about my kissing you,” said William Holbrook
coldly, “you can put that down to imagination right away,” and
grinned to see her flush. “No, it was Lambert Stone you saw all right.
He’s got some news for you when he comes to see you this evening.”

“For me?” she said in surprise. “What kind of news?”

“Well--” awkwardly--“it’s pretty good for you, that’s all!”

“This,” said Bullott, when they walked out through the shady grounds
of the hospital, “is the craziest crime that has ever been committed.
The girl is unharmed; she has obviously been kept under the influence
of drugs; the doctor suggests scopolamin, which would keep her in a
state of coma for two days, provided she were kept in the dark; and
when she is found, she is wearing a white silk robe over her
nightdress--a robe which her landlady has never seen before, and which
I don’t suppose Miss Carew would recognise if she saw it. Another
point; when she is picked up by the officer, she is lying on a
stretcher--an ordinary Army stretcher that you can buy at any war
depôt for a pound. That means that she has been wherever she has been
in an ambulance, or some car that was originally used as an ambulance.
I’ve had all the hire depôts investigated, and I’ve had reports from
the country constabulary around London, but no ambulance has been
reported, which cannot be accounted for, though, if it carried no
distinguishing marks, and travelled in the night, I should not expect
a report.”

“Do you mean to suggest that she was two days and two nights
unconscious?” asked Bill incredulously.

“From her point of view, yes,” said Bullott. “If you were to see a
person under its influence you would not imagine that he or she was
drugged. Its effect is to destroy the recollection of what passed a
few seconds before, and our only hope is that there were moments when
the effects of the dope wore off and she can recall to us some
incident which will put us on the track. What does this bird wish?”

“This bird” was a shabby man who had been waiting for them on the
street outside, and now moved as though to intercept them. The face
was that of a weakling; his irregular features, the small, unshaven
chin, the furtive look in his small, pale eyes, said to Holbrook,
something of a physiognomist, “criminal.” To Mr. Bullott, with his
amazing memory for faces, it said two words.

“Well, Tinker, how long have you been out?”

Tinker’s jaw dropped.

“Tinker Lane,” introduced Bullott with embarrassing frankness, “a
ladder larcenist between voyages, eh, Tinker? He’s called Tinker
because he’s a sailor--that is a peculiar form of English humour which
will not appeal to you, Holbrook. What do you want?”

“I don’t want nothing from you, sir,” whined the man, recognising
authority in the inspector’s tone. “I wanted to see this gent.
Somebody told me he was a reporter.”

“Me?” said Bill in surprise.

Bullott drew off discreetly, leaving them alone.

“Excuse me, sir,”--the man’s hoarse confidence was flavoured with a
strong smell of liquor--“but when I was on a voyage to Orstralia,
there was a fellow serving with me who told me he got a lot of money
out of newspapers by telling ’em something about a sea serpent that
he’d seen with his own eyes----”

“If you’re trying to tell me a sea serpent story, you’re letting all
that good vinous breath run to waste,” said Bill, good-humouredly.

“No, sir, it ain’t that.”

Bill was looking at him curiously. He wore a pair of corduroy
trousers, a ragged blue jersey up to his neck, and the greasy cap on
his head had once adorned the head of a ship’s officer.

“I’ve got a story that’s worth pots of money!” said Tinker. “I’ll bet
it’s worth thousands!”

With elaborate caution he looked round to see if he was observed, and
then, diving deep into his trousers pocket, he produced a little green
and gold star, with an inscription in the centre, which Bill saw was
in Greek, though he was insufficiently acquainted with that ancient
tongue to translate or even read it.

“Five points,” said Tinker Lane impressively. “Pain, Sorrow”--he
ticked them off with a grimy forefinger--“Hunger, Thirst and Death.
How’s that?”

“Sounds pretty good to me,” said Bill. “What is it supposed to be? A
patent medicine ad.?”

“No, it ain’t, it’s a story.”

For the third time he looked nervously around.

“What did they ask me to come in for--me, that never had any education
and never wanted it; me that has been in bird----”

“‘Bird’?” said the puzzled William.

“Quod--you know, prison--over the Alps--anything you like. I’ve been
in four times. You wouldn’t think they’d want a man like me, would
you? As a matter of fact, I didn’t understand what they were jabbering
about. It made me laugh to hear this big guy in a black cloak talking
about duty and responsibility and all that hunk. But I had to go
through with the first degree, and when it was over they come for
me--tapped me on the shoulder as I was going out of the lodge.”

“The Proud Sons of Ragousa?” gasped Bill.

“Got it first time. The fellow that tapped me was an old shipmate of
mine, a chap that got five years in Singapore for knifing the mate of
a ship he was sailing with. He told me they picked him up in the East
India Dock Road when he was down and out.”

Bill turned and beckoned Bullott to him.

“Listen to this,” he said. “Our friend is telling me a little story
about the Proud Sons that will make your ears prick!”

“I haven’t given you the story yet. You’ve only got the beginning of
it,” the dilapidated Tinker made haste to assure them.

“Wait,” said Bill, and told his friend what had already passed
between them.

“When this man tapped you on the shoulder--this old shipmate of
yours--what did he want you to do?”

“I didn’t know it was him, to tell you the truth. He had one of those
bed-gowns on. But he told me to wait for him outside, and we went off
to the White Hart to have a drink, and he spilled the rest of the
yarn. He said they’d picked him up in the East India Dock Road, down
and out, took him up to the lodge and made him a member--the Limehouse
Lodge, Number--well, I don’t know what the number is, anyway, it was
Limehouse. The biggest lodge in London. After that they made him into
the Twenty-Third Degree. That’s what I am--the Twenty-Third Degree,”
he said impressively. “You’d never guess it, would you? But I am; I
can go down to any of these Ragousa fellows and make ’em do what I
like--in a sense! I couldn’t make ’em give me money without putting
’em out: I know that because I’ve tried. But it’s one of the swell
lodges.”

“You’re a member of the Twenty-Third Degree, and that star----”

“Ah! That star!” said the other, with grinning triumph. “That’s what
I’m going to tell you about. What’s going to be done in July--the
twenty-ninth of July? Do you know what I am?” He pointed to himself.
“I’m second engine-room guard. It’s worth ten thousand quid to me. You
wouldn’t believe it--ten thousand quid, and I haven’t got the price of
a doss!”

“In that case,” said Bill, “it doesn’t seem that it’s worth while
your telling the story for a few paltry pounds.”

“Ten thousand wouldn’t buy my neck: I love myself too much. Besides,
how do you know they’re not going to double-cross me? It would be the
easiest thing in the world. I know something better. You slip me five
hundred of the brightest and best, and I’ll give you a story that’ll
make your hair stand on end, and all your newspaper readers go blue
with fright. You think I am bluffing, but I’m not. It’s the bird in
the hand I want, and I’ve been following you about London all day
trying to get a word with you, though I didn’t know this gentleman was
a busy, or may be I wouldn’t have come up and talked to you now. I can
get a ship next week for the River Plate, and with five hundred in my
pocket I could have a peach of a time in Buenos Aires. Do I get the
money?”

Bill thought a while quickly.

“I can’t give you the money myself, but I’ll speak to my editor,” he
said. “Will you come to my house to-night at nine o’clock?”

The man accepted the offer eagerly.

“Make it ten,” he said. “I’ve got to meet my friend at nine. And have
the money ready--this is a sensation! And say--why ship flour to
America? And canned meat to America, and rifles and booze--openly?
That’s funny, ain’t it? So long!”

And with no other word of explanation he slouched off.

Inspector Bullott knew much more about the Proud Sons of Ragousa than
Bill Holbrook imagined. It was not for amusement that he had spent
half the previous night in the newly furnished house of one who, by an
act of fortune, had suddenly found himself a comparatively rich man.
But Bullott’s craving for information was insatiable.

There was a Government department which dealt with “friendly
societies,” and he made a call on the chief of the bureau, to
discover that he might have saved himself a journey.

“The Ragousas do not come under my observation,” said the official.
“We deal solely with benefit societies, that is to say, with societies
the members of which pay a certain sum a week and receive sick pay,
insurance and similar benefits. The Ragousas come into the category of
social clubs, and make no returns of their membership.”

“All that I know of them is that they are a perfectly innocuous
association with an extremely large membership. There has been a
suggestion that their method of dispensing big prizes comes under the
Lottery Act, but you, as a police officer, will know more about that
than I. As a matter of fact,” he confessed, “quite a number of men I
know are members, and they are eminently respectable persons. You will
never eradicate from human nature the desire to dress up.”

There was little in this unsatisfactory interview to add to the sum of
Bullott’s knowledge. More interesting were the confidential reports
which he was receiving from the coast towns. Some of these were a
little disquieting.

“I cannot understand what has come over the Ragousas lately,” wrote
the Chief Constable of Northport. “They seem to be gathering the worst
elements in the town; and if they had somebody recruiting members at
the prison door, I should not be surprised. I have had one or two
complaints from men who have been members of the order for years, and
who say that the class of membership is falling very considerably. I
knew at least three new Ragousas who have convictions behind them, and
one of these is a man who has been twice tried for attempted murder.”

Bullott filed the report and read another, similarly couched. The
Tinker, then, was not the only hard case recently initiated into the
mysteries of the Proud Sons.

Later in the evening he made another call at the hospital. The girl
was up and anxious to return to her lodgings.

“I’m going to ask you a question, Miss Carew, and I’d like you to give
a lot of thought before you reply. You have some confused recollection
of what happened to you after you were taken from your house?”

“Very confused,” she smiled, “so confused that even now I am
perfectly certain I saw you and Mr. Holbrook.”

“Did you by any chance see Dr. Laffin, or hear his voice?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“No, I have no recollection whatever, though one of the voices I heard
was familiar. Do you think Dr. Laffin was responsible?”

“I wouldn’t like to mention any names,” said the diplomatic Bullott.

“I don’t remember.” She shook her head again. “I certainly have no
impression of the doctor. The only thing I am certain about is that I
was on a stretcher. I was found lying on a stretcher, wasn’t I? Well,
I must have been on that most of the time. I have a distinct
recollection of my bed sagging in the middle, and I’m sure I must have
been in a car, for I remember distinctly the buzzing and vibration,
and somebody saying that we had lost the way.” She laughed softly.
“Perhaps Mr. Holbrook was not in it, but that part of my dream was
very vivid.”

“About his kissing you?” asked the unemotional Bullott, and she
gasped and went red.

“How did you know?” she demanded.

“You mentioned something about his kissing you when you woke up.”

“If you ever discuss this with Mr. Holbrook, I wish you would
emphasise the fact that the experience from beginning to end was a
nightmare. Please remember to say that.”

Bullott smiled to himself as he went out. That little conversation
would bear repeating, he thought, but unfortunately, when he reached
his house Bill Holbrook was out.




 CHAPTER XXVI.
 A TALK WITH DR. LAFFIN

Bill had not seen Laffin since the night the doctor had lost his
golden buckle. He had very wisely left the police to interview him
concerning Betty Carew’s strange disappearance, with what was, to a
reporter, the utterly unsatisfactory result of exonerating that
gentleman from any complicity in her abduction.

When he arrived at Camden Road, the door was opened to him by a
strange servant--strange also to the doctor, it would seem, for she
hesitated when, as Bill suspected, she should have told him that Dr.
Laffin was not to be seen.

“Come in, sir,” she said, closing the door behind him. “If you’ll sit
down in the hall for a minute, I’ll find out whether the doctor will
see you.”

There came from the study the sound of voices raised in altercation,
and she had to knock twice before a sharp voice bade her come in. She
heard the doctor’s smothered exclamation of annoyance, heard his snarl
and the flow of cold-blooded vituperation at the mistake which the
unfortunate servant had called forth. Then a man came out of the room,
flushed and angry, but with a ready smile for Bill.

“You’re Holbrook, aren’t you? I’m Lord Lowbridge. I think we’ve met
before. Are you seeing this old devil to find out his responsibility
for the outrageous treatment of Miss Carew? You can save yourself a
lot of trouble; I’ve been trying for the past hour. Nevertheless, he’s
in it up to his neck,” he said, lowering his voice, and then, seeing
the frightened servant in the doorway, he nodded and went out.

Whatever fury Bill’s arrival had evoked in the bosom of Dr. Laffin,
all trace of emotion had vanished when the visitor stumbled into the
dark room and groped his way towards a chair which he would never have
known was there to receive him, but for a gleam of light upon its
polished back.

“I understand that you wish to see me, Mr. Holbrook?” The doctor was
his old, mincing self, soft-voiced, superior, imperturbable. “It is
fair that you should know that I have little sympathy with the methods
of the modern Pressman. Even the highest and the most intellectual
newspapers in the land seem to have adopted the objectionable hustle
of the cheaper Press. Fortunately, newspapers are not necessary to me,
and publicity is my bête noir.”

“Thank you for those encouraging words,” said Bill cheerfully, “but I
haven’t come to interview you about Miss Carew’s disappearance. I
understand the police have already seen you, and that you knew nothing
whatever of the matter until you were informed?”

“Miss Carew and I are not on terms of confidence.” The doctor put his
long finger-tips together, and was leaning back in his chair, looking
down at the table. “The opportunities which I have offered to her have
been so often flouted, my authority so continuously despised, my
charity--for I have been charitable--so ungraciously rewarded, that I
have almost ceased to take an interest in her future.”

“By charity, I presume you mean your adoption of her when she was a
baby? I’ve been wondering, Doctor,” said Bill quietly, “whether you
knew, when you took that child from the poorhouse, that her father was
Leiff Stone----”

The doctor’s hands were palm to palm beneath his chin. He was
ridiculously like some mediæval saint in the act of devotion. But at
Bill Holbrook’s words, both hands dropped with a thud upon the table,
and the hard, black eyes met his.

“What do you mean?” he said harshly.

“You didn’t know, then, that the Carens were not the parents of the
girl who calls herself Elizabeth Carew? That she was the daughter of
Leiff Stone, who left his wife in the care of the Carens when he
returned to America?”

“It seems almost like an extract from some popular work of fiction,”
said Dr. Laffin at last. “When did you learn this?”

Holbrook told him, in a few words, without, however, revealing Toby
Marsh as the source of the information.

“I confess that I did not trouble to search the register,” said
Laffin, after a pause. “You say that Mr. Lambert Stone is perfectly
satisfied that the girl is his niece, and that Mr. Leiff Stone was her
father?”

“‘Was’?” repeated Bill sharply. “Is he dead?”

“How am I to know, if I do not number this gentleman amongst my
acquaintances?” he said smoothly. “‘Was’ or ‘is’--does it matter? All
things are, for the spirit essence is indestructible.”

“We will keep away from the occult, if you don’t mind, doctor,”
begged Holbrook. “I am a little out of my depths when I lift my mind
from the Camden Road, and the is-ness of things.”

The doctor rose.

“Thank you for coming, Mr.--er--Holbrook, I think your name is? I must
write to my little Elizabeth and congratulate her. She will, I have no
doubt, remember with gratitude the care that I lavished upon her.”

“I guess she won’t have much chance of forgetting,” said Bill coolly.
“But that wasn’t all I came to see you about, Doctor. Your
Twenty-Third Degree has got me guessing.”

Laffin raised his hand in protest, and in so doing made the almost
imperceptible sign of the Ragousas.

“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” said the calm Bill, “and if
you’re going to pull any of that stuff about the oath of the Proud
Sons and the responsibilities of brotherhood, I shall say things to
you which I may regret. What is this Twenty-Third Degree? How do you
come to be the head of it? I’m asking you”--he spoke slowly, leaning
over the table, his palms on its edge, his face within a few inches of
the doctor’s--“because there’s something behind the Ragousas,
something you know, something that is sinister and outside of the law.
The Ragousas are decent men, with decent men’s childish delight in
passwords and signs and grips, and the fool play that is part of the
joy of secret societies. But the Twenty-Third Degree doesn’t belong to
the plumbers and bakers and icemen who get thrilled every time they
mask their faces and think they’re being conspirators. How came you
there, right on top?”

“The Twenty-Third Degree,” began the doctor, “as you ought to know as
a Ragousa--I dislike most intensely discussing the mysteries of that
noble order--has ever been a degree of honour----”

“Forget it,” said Bill. “The Twenty-Third Degree was moribund until
you went into it. It consisted of about fifty ancients who dabbled in
occultism, acting as a buffer between the lower degrees and the swell
fellows on top, the Priors. But those old guys are out of the
Twenty-Third; they’ve been returned, one by one, to their various
lodges, and other men have taken their places--men you’ve selected
yourself. What’s the idea, Laffin?”

Dr. Laffin’s lips tightened.

“I refuse, utterly refuse, to discuss the secrets of the Ragousas,”
he said. “If you were not entirely lost to shame, to all sense of
decency, you would not press such an indelicate question upon one who
has the honour----”

“Leiff Stone--where is he?”

Laffin’s eyes blinked at his questioner, but he did not answer.

“Where is Leiff Stone?” asked Bill Holbrook slowly and deliberately.
“The man who called at the store in Duke Street, the man in the black
cassock and the sandals, who came to Betty Carew and asked for ‘the
message’? The man who expected to see her there, sitting in a green
dress at a desk on which was a jade vase and one red rose? Where is
Leiff Stone?”

“I don’t know, I don’t understand you. You’re mad to ask such
questions,” he said, and for the first time since Bill had known him
there was a tremor of anxiety in his voice. “And if I knew I would not
tell you. How dare you come to me--to me, of all people in the world?
You shallow-brained, material----”

“Rough talk doesn’t worry me,” said Bill. “I’m acquainted with a news
editor who can give you a pretty long start in the matter of offensive
invention. Now I’m going to tell you something.” He tapped with his
knuckles on the desk to emphasize every word. “Leiff Stone is, or was,
the Grand Prior of the Ragousas.”

Dr. Laffin walked across to the door and opened it slowly.

“Good-night,” he said, with extravagant politeness. “I have
thoroughly enjoyed our conversation.”

Bill nodded. There was nothing more to be said, no profit in any
further interview. He walked out into Camden Road with a sense of
triumph.

He drove to the Press Club, for he had a column to write on the latest
developments of the Brother John murder, and it was nearly eleven
o’clock before he joined Lambert Stone. Mr. Stone had spent the
greater part of the evening at the hospital, for, although Betty had
recovered, the doctors had thought it wise to detain her for another
day.

“You told her about your relationship?”

“Yes, she was dazed, but pathetically glad,” said Stone. “I don’t
think she quite realized how her supposed parentage has clouded her
life. She told me that Laffin never ceased to taunt her with the fact
that she had a murderer’s blood in her veins.”

“What difference will it make to her position? Your brother is a rich
man?”

“I don’t know,” smiled Stone. “He was very rich once; our father left
us each two million dollars, and probably Leiff is still a wealthy
man. But that doesn’t matter very much, does it? I’m a bachelor; Betty
is my only relative.”

Bill scratched his chin.

“I see,” he said, without enthusiasm. “Miss Carew--I’ll still call
her that, if you don’t mind--goes into the desirable heiress class?”

“With a lordly lover ready made,” laughed Stone. “The first person
she asked for was Clive Lowbridge.”

“Indeed?” said Bill coldly. “Isn’t that grand?”

Stone was eyeing him keenly.

“You don’t like Lowbridge?”

“On the contrary, I like him very much.” Holbrook roused himself with
an effort to cheerfulness. “Oh no, I’ve nothing on Lowbridge,
only--somehow--I don’t like these international marriages.”

He was astonished at himself; his voice was husky, he had a queer
sensation of pain, for which he could find no adequate cause.

“I’ll be getting along,” he said, after an awkward pause. “I’m glad
you told her. She’s rather… sweet, that niece of yours.”

He walked down the stairs, passed the night porter with a nod, and
stepped out into the cool night air, curiously shaken. As he stood, a
little numb with the realisation of his folly, a car came slowly past.
He looked at it dully, seeing yet not seeing. Then, from the place
where the driver sat, leapt a red pencil of flame, and Bill Holbrook
crumpled in a heap on the sidewalk.




 CHAPTER XXVII.
 RAGOUSA TALK

Lambert Stone was halfway down the stairs with Holbrook’s coat on
his arm, when he heard the shot. The night porter had also heard the
_plock!_ of a pistol fired with a silencer, and reached the huddled
figure before Stone came running up. Together they lifted the
unconscious reporter and carried him into the elevator.

“’Phone a doctor,” said Stone quickly, when they had laid him on the
sofa in his sitting-room.

The bullet had struck above Bill Holbrook’s right eyebrow, and
followed the eccentric course which bullets sometimes take, for it had
emerged from the skin at a point above the ear, having completed a
half-circuit of his head, without, so far as Stone could discover,
penetrating the bone at any place. The wound was ugly enough, and the
night porter had no doubt that the victim was dead, but Lambert Stone,
who had passed his youth in a community where gun-play was a normal
circumstance of life, diagnosed the injury with greater accuracy.

Fortunately, there was a doctor in the building, and his brief
examination confirmed Lambert’s view.

“There is no fracture,” he said, busy with his needle, “and the
longer this young man remains unconscious, the easier it will be to
fix him.”

The dressing of the wound was nearly completed, when Bill opened his
eyes and stared up into the face of his host.

“Nearly got me, I guess,” he said faintly.

“You didn’t see the shooter?”

“No… same as Brother John… got me from the car.”

Save for a racking headache, he was his normal self when Bullott came.

“I called at Laffin’s on my way,” he said. “He hasn’t left the house
all evening--I know this because I’ve got a shadow watching him. You
were there to-night--you told him something?” he challenged.

“Yuh,” said Bill.

“What was it--Ragousa talk?” asked Bullott, with a pretence at
carelessness.

“Twenty-Third Degree, mostly. Why I did it, I don’t know; I should
have been kicked--it was my weakness for sensation made me so darned
talkative. I know why I was shot all right. What’s the time?”

“A quarter to twelve.”

“I’ve got to see that man,” he said. “I can go, can’t I, Doctor?”

“Unless it is very important,” hesitated the doctor, “I don’t think
you should be moved.”

“It _is_ important,” said Bill emphatically, and sat up with a groan.

It was only when he swore that he would go to bed the moment he
arrived home, and that he would get a nurse and a surgeon on the
following morning to dress the wound, that the doctor agreed.

Midnight was chiming from a church clock when Bullott and Lambert
Stone helped him out of the cab, and up to his room. A man was
standing in the shadow of the doorway; Bill saw him the moment he
reached the sidewalk; but it was not the Tinker.

“Got you, did they?” said a cheerful voice. “I somehow thought they’d
go gunning for you when I heard you spilling your trouble to the
doctor.”

It was Toby Marsh, and Bill stared at him incredulously.

“You heard? You weren’t in the doctor’s study.”

“I’m there every night,” said Toby Marsh, with a smirk. “You couldn’t
keep me away from Laffin; we’re like brothers!”

Toby sat on the edge of the bed, the stub of an unlighted cigar
between his white teeth.

“I ought to have been a reporter,” he said. “I’ve got more
newsgetting ideas than any of the cubs I’ve met in my professional
life. Lord! when I think of the scoops I could have got,” he said
reminiscently. “I’ll tell you something, Bullott, as a guarantee of
good faith, as the newspapers say. I did a two years’ course of
deed-box work. That’s a new one on you? In that two years I broke into
a hundred and twenty-three lawyers’ offices. It was a hobby, you
understand; just an in-something-able curiosity--what’s the word?
Thank you--insatiable. There’s no money in lawyers, but a whole
fortune if I’d been ‘putting the black’.[2] I did other work, because
a man’s got to live, and hobbies are expensive. But the documents I’ve
read! The bundles of letters, tied up with red tape, what wives have
said to their husbands and what husbands have said to their wives, the
confessions and deeds of assignment--there’s a Cabinet Minister who’s
been paying three thousand a year blackmail for the last twelve years;
did you know it?” He mentioned a great name. “I’m a reporter, I tell
you--I want to know. A lot of people think that a born reporter is a
fellow who wants to write, but that’s not so, and Holbrook will tell
you the same. A born reporter just wants to know, and he doesn’t care
a darn whether he writes or whether he doesn’t.”

“I’ll swear you were not in that room,” said Bill vigorously. “It was
fairly dark, but you couldn’t have been concealed----”

“I wasn’t within a mile of that room,” confessed Toby. “Nevertheless,
I was there, if you understand, in the spirit.”

He was intensely amused, convulsed with internal laughter. Presently
he took off his gold-rimmed spectacles and wiped them dry.

“When the weather goes cold, I’m finished as a source of information.
But, barring this accident, I’m your special correspondent at
headquarters.”

“You’d make a lot of money if you went straight,” said Bullott with
reluctant admiration.

Toby Marsh’s nose wrinkled.

“You’re talking like a judge. ‘If your energies had been directed into
proper and legitimate channels, you might have made an honest living,
instead of which you are going down for nine moons with hard labour.’
No, sir, burglary is my long suit, and all the rest are recreations.
I’d sooner open a burglar-proof safe, or burn out a fire-resisting
lock, than I’d see my name over the finest story that was ever
printed.”

“You’re a bad man, and will come to a bad end,” said Bullott.

“I shall end up as a churchwarden,” said the other calmly, “highly
respected by the folk of a cathedral city, and admired by my
neighbors. Maybe I’ll take dinner with a bishop every other
Thursday--you never can tell. Or perhaps I’ll get a knighthood. The
Prime Minister’s daughter will get locked up in a safe, and nobody can
open it; somebody thinks of Toby Marsh; he arrives in the nick of time
and saves the daughter amid loud applause. I saw a play like that. I
have my dreams.”

Bill glanced at Bullott, who looked at his watch.

“You can save yourself a lot of trouble--he won’t come.”

“Who?” asked the startled inspector.

“Tinker,” was the reply, “the gentleman who was calling to spill the
beans. I’ve been looking for him all night, and if I can’t find him,
there isn’t a busy that ever strolled out of Scotland Yard disguised
as a gentleman who could succeed. I’ve searched every dive from the
Edgware Road to Whitfield Street. I’ve asked the nearest approach he’s
got to a friend. I’ve been to his lodgings in Seven Dials--where all
the coon-jazzers live--and there’s no sign or sight of him--hasn’t
been seen since four o’clock this afternoon, when he had a cup of tea
at Bony’s coffee-shop. Is it likely he’ll come?”

As though in answer to his question, came one heavy knock at the
street door, and Bullott went down the stairs two at a time.

A shabby looking man stood on the doorstep, but it was not the Tinker.

“Name of Bullott?” he asked hoarsely.

“That’s my name.” The detective took a letter from the man’s hand.
“Here, wait!” he called, as the messenger was making a rapid retreat,
but he took no notice of Bullott’s instructions.

The letter contained one word--“Detained.” No signature, date, place
or address. He went out into the street, but by this time the man who
had brought the note was running, and it seemed that no useful purpose
could be served by bringing him back.

“What do you think of this?” he asked, returning to his party. “Take
it by the edge; I’m going to bring out the finger-prints.”

Bill took the note from his hand, and read the word.

“I suppose there’s no doubt that this is from the Tinker?”

“‘Detained’ is a word that the Tinker wouldn’t use,” said the
irrepressible Marsh. “It doesn’t belong to the three thousand six
hundred and twelve words that make up the lowbrow’s vocabulary. If you
think the number is less, take any page in a dictionary and count the
words that everybody knows.”

“That isn’t the Tinker’s writing, anyway--for the simple reason that
he can’t write,” said Bullott, looking at the letter again.

He went downstairs and returned with a small phial half-filled with a
fine violet powder, and shook a little on to the paper. This he worked
round dexterously until the notepaper was covered with a violet film
of dust. When he blew the residue into the fireplace, a thumb-print
was visible in one corner.

“And that’s yours,” grunted Bullott, nodding at Bill. “The man who
wrote this wore gloves.”

He treated the envelope in the same way, and here, as he expected, the
prints were many, and, to his practised eye, the majority of them were
thumbmarks made by the same individual.

“We may be able to trace the messenger, but the writer has left no
sign.”

Bill sat up in bed, and reached for the cigarette box.

“The twenty-ninth of July, things are going to happen. That date
intrigues me. And what did he mean by saying that somebody was
shipping canned beef and flour to America--and rifles, too, if I
remember rightly? Bullott, I’m keeping that appointment on Sunday
night, and I’m going alone.”

“In which case you’ll return in company,” interrupted Toby promptly.
“There’ll be an ambulance man, two doctors, a bunch of policemen, and
may be the mortuary keeper. You’re referring to your appointment on
the Epping Road… third milestone, if I remember? I thought so! Son, I
admire your courage, but your intelligence is beneath contempt.
There’s only one place for you in the course of the next week or two,
and that is behind a steel wall, eating food that you’ve prepared
yourself.”

“Do you really mean that?” asked Bullott seriously.

“You bet I mean it,” he said, “you bet I mean it!”




 CHAPTER XXVIII.
 THE SEEN PRIOR

That a man should be shot dead in broad daylight, on one of the most
crowded streets of London, and that the murderer should have escaped,
offered to the leader-writer of every metropolitan newspaper an
opportunity and an excuse for calling into question the prescience and
genius of the detective force.

The Chief sent for Bullott, and, without a word, handed him a thick
bunch of newspaper cuttings, and the first thing that caught the
inspector’s eye was a paragraph:


 “In the circumstances it is rather remarkable that the officer in
 charge of the case should be Inspector Bullott, who, we understand, is
 in this way making his acquaintance with the procedure of criminal
 detection. Hitherto, Mr. Bullott has occupied an important position in
 the Records Department of Scotland Yard, where he has rendered
 admirable service to the State, but which can hardly have fitted him
 for the duty he is now called upon to perform.”


Bullott’s heart went down with a thump. The rosy dreams of success,
already dim, faded greyly.

“Read the next one,” suggested the police chief.

The second of the leaders was even more ruthless.


 “Mr. Bullott, who is in charge of this case, is certainly pursuing
 methods which are, to say the least, unorthodox. Despising the
 assistance which trained and efficient police officers, accustomed to
 such cases, could give to him, he seems to be satisfied with the help
 of a man of doubtful antecedents and a reporter attached to the staff
 of one of our contemporaries. Admirable as this combination may appear
 to the inexperienced Mr. Bullott, an anxious public will not be
 impressed…”


“The third one is almost as bad,” said the Chief, and the troubled
Inspector Bullott took up the third cutting reluctantly.

It was from the _Post-News_.


 “… frankly, we must ask Scotland Yard to consider seriously whether
 they are taking all the steps possible to bring to justice this
 unknown assassin. As frankly, we state that it is, in our opinion, a
 grave error of judgment to place so important a case in the hands of
 an inexperienced police officer, a gentleman who has never before
 handled so much as a minor prosecution…”


“I suppose that means you want me to go back to my office, sir?” said
Bullott.

The old chief chuckled.

“It means nothing of the kind,” he said. “I’ve been on to the
newspapers--I know the editors of most--and I’ve found that those
leaders were written on information supplied yesterday afternoon from
a source which they, of course, refuse to reveal. The information was
couched in the same terms, all having one object, which is to clear
you out of this case. And they wouldn’t be worrying about you and your
peculiar friends if there wasn’t a reason--it is quite enough for me,
Bullott, that they wish you replaced. I’ll take the unpopular course
of confirming you in that appointment. The police force that is
popular isn’t doing its duty! Now, what about this shooting of
Holbrook? How is he, by the way?”

“Practically well,” said Bullott. “The Press knows nothing about this
last attempt, and I propose to keep it quiet for a day or two.”

The chief nodded.

“Marsh may be a difficult proposition for you to handle, but there’s
nothing new in making use of a man of his questionable past. And he’s
a character--I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew much more about this
business than you give him credit for.”

The conference lasted an hour, and when Bullott issued into the street
the first thing he saw was an early newspaper bill:


                         “_Murder Witness Kidnapped._”


Betty’s story was now public property. Bill Holbrook’s column had been
the big news of the morning, and although he had dealt as sketchily as
possible with the girl and her experience, he had left no doubt in the
reader’s mind that her disappearance from London for three days was
directly associated with the murder of Brother John.

“Not that I’m sure about that,” he said, when Bullott had returned
and showed him the paper. “When we can persuade this young lady to
tell us her dreams, we shall probably form another opinion--you got a
good roasting from the morning papers, Bullott. What do they say at
headquarters?”

Bullott turned up his thumbs suggestively.

“The opposition is organised, of course,” said Bill, laying down the
paper, “and that brings me down to Laffin. There is a Laffin touch in
that stuff that can’t be mistaken. And, if you want news, here’s an
item that’ll tickle you to death; La Florette has taken Lord
Towcester’s house in Portman Place for the season, and is entertaining
on a large scale, prior to her departure to winter in South America.
You don’t see anything funny about it? I do! Florette is nearly broke,
so is Van Campe. The failure of his last show has brought more
creditors to his doorstep than he can accommodate. In fact,
Florette--whose other name is Hamshaw--has started economising. Toby
Marsh lodges with her mother and knows. A year’s rent of that Portman
Place house is about two thousand pounds; it will cost five thousand a
year to run--and that is without etceteras.”

Bullott was only mildly interested.

“That’s her trouble,” he said.

“And yours too,” said Bill, and before he could explain what he
meant, Bullott’s housekeeper announced a visitor.

It was Mr. Pawter, and in the quiet eyes that gleamed behind his
thick, horn-rimmed glasses was a ghoulish satisfaction.

“This comes of leaving the innocent pursuits of commerce, William,”
he said, glancing approvingly at the white-bandaged head.

“How the devil did you know I was shot up?”

“It has just come on the street, in the later editions,” said Mr.
Pawter. “That is why I called.”

By this time Bullott was halfway down the stairs to his telephone. He
had many friends on the Press, and his first call was at the _Evening
Gazette_.

“It came through on the tape,” said the news editor reproachfully.
“You might have tipped us off, Bullott.”

“What agency sent it out?” demanded the inspector.

“The Central Association.”

Fortunately, Bullott had friends at this court also, but they could
give him little satisfaction.

“We had a ’phone call this morning saying Holbrook was shot, and one
of our reporters saw the hall-keeper in Albemarle Street, and
interviewed the doctor who attended him.”

“There’s a very busy newsgiver wandering round,” he said, when he
returned to Bill and told him the result of his investigations.

“It doesn’t matter, except to you,” said Bill. “I presume the idea of
spreading the report is to discredit you still further as a sleuth.”

“They can go right on discrediting,” said Bullott, with quiet
satisfaction. “I don’t suppose that it matters. The Chief has given me
a new assistant--” he glanced at Mr. Pawter, listening open-mouthed,
and decided that it was not a moment for confidences.

“That is Father Pips,” explained Holbrook, when his relative had
gone. “Pawter’s Publicity Agency, my respected cousin, a bachelor, has
no criminal tendencies so far as I know, except a passion for
gramophone music, and is not even remotely connected with the Proud
Sons of Ragousa----”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Bullott. “He’s the Seen Prior of
that exalted order.”

“The Seen Prior? What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been going into this Ragousa question rather thoroughly,” said
Bullott, “and I have collected more information in the past few days
than I ever hoped to get. It is part of the scheme of the Proud Sons
that no brother shall know another, though, of course, so far as the
lower ranks are concerned, this idea doesn’t work, and isn’t expected
to work. But, higher up, amongst the Grand Lodge folk and the
Twenty-Third Degree, and higher still, amongst the Priors of the
Order, the system of secrecy is a rigid one. There are fourteen
Priors: the Grand Prior, twelve others in residence, and the
fourteenth, who comes occasionally and acts for the Grand Prior in
certain matters. He’s the only man whose face is never covered. That
man is Pawter!”

“You’re crazy!” said Bill.

“I tell you I’m speaking by the book. I’ve had a man down in Dartmoor,
and we’ve trailed the Priors to their home. Twelve years ago, an old
monastery on the edge of Dartmoor came into the market as a result of
a branch of a religious order returning to Italy, where it belonged.
The property was purchased on behalf of the Ragousas by Pawter
himself. It is a queer, ancient building, surrounded by a high wall in
the most desolate part of Dartmoor, and thousands of pounds were spent
in renovation before the Grand Priors came into residence. The Priors
do not know one another. They live fairly well; each has his own
suite, and is waited upon by a lower order Ragousa, specially chosen
for the purpose, and well paid for the job. Pawter goes down to the
Priory every six months, and when you think the matter over you’ll
realise the wisdom of having one of the Priors unmasked. Twice a year
the lottery occurs, which has made the Proud Sons of Ragousa so
popular with the speculating public. The man who does the drawing is
Pawter. It is carried out, of course, in the presence of the others,
and every precaution is taken to ensure the draw being a fair one.
Hundreds of thousands of metal-rimmed tickets, on each of which is
written the official number of a member, are placed in a barrel and
turned. The Seen Prior puts his hand through an aperture, takes out a
ticket, and that is the first prize-winner. I should not have known
this but for the discovery I made last night, that every man who draws
a big argosy is present at the next drawing, under a vow of secrecy,
of course. I interviewed four of the lucky ones before I could get one
to talk, and by an odd chance it happened that he knew Pawter
personally, and had worked in his office. Now I’m going to tell you
something else; the head of the order is Leiff Stone. My informant
told me something I did not know; that there was a Chaplain of the
Priors, a short, stout man, whose face naturally he did not see, but
whom he heard addressed as ‘Brother John’.”

Bill whistled.

“Here’s a problem for you”--Bullott spoke slowly--“Brother John is
the confidant of the Grand Prior, the most trusted member of the
order. Why was he shot? I am taking the strongest party of police that
ever went to Dartmoor, and raiding the Grand Priory, and when I come
out, the murderer of Brother John will be in my hands!”




 CHAPTER XXIX.
 A STRANGE OCCURRENCE

Clive’s flat was indeed a restful spot. At his suggestion, Betty
Carew, newly released from hospital, had broken her journey to have
tea with him. She lay in a deep arm-chair, soothed by the greys and
blues of the appointments. Benson was setting the tea-table, a capable
figure of a man. Clive had gone down to get an evening newspaper with
the account of the attack upon Bill Holbrook.

“This is a very peaceful place, Benson.”

“Yes, Miss, it is remarkably well situated, and very close to the
tubes.

“His lordship finds the flat small,” Benson went on, “and I have no
doubt it is for a gentleman who would, I am sure, wish to entertain on
a larger scale. If his lordship married, it would be impossible,” he
added as an afterthought, and she laughed.

“I don’t think his lordship contemplates matrimony, does he?”

“I have not his lordship’s confidence in the matter,” said Benson
primly, and at that moment Clive returned.

“Here’s the account. Your friend seems to be in the wars.”

“He thrives on trouble,” she said.

“What were those dreams of yours, Betty? I’ve got an idea that, when
we’re able to disentangle reality from the dream, we’ll have a pretty
good notion of what happened to you.”

She dismissed the subject with a weary gesture, and wisely he turned
the conversation into more pleasant channels.

“So you’re a rich woman now, Betty? That is most embarrassing to me.”

“Why to you especially?” She laughed. “I’m not rich. I’ve discovered
some amazing relations, but I don’t think it will make a great deal of
difference to me. But why are you embarrassed, Clive?”

“Because--I think you know without my telling you. I want to marry you
badly, Betty; I wanted to marry you when you were broke and I was
broke, and marriage seemed so very, very possible. And then you
refused because you thought you would be a drag on me. Now that you
are rich, I can’t ask you because”--he shrugged his shoulders--“I
hate the idea of marrying money.”

“Poor Clive! I think the old objection stands. Mr. Lambert Stone is
rich, but in all probability my father is a very poor man--and not
only poor, but crazy!”

“Craziness is due to an accident which might have happened to you or
to me,” interrupted Clive.

“I don’t offer that as a serious objection,” she said. “The question
as to whether I am rich or poor really makes no difference at all,
Clive. I’m going on with my career--I’ve told Mr. Lambert Stone as
much--and please don’t think that the discovery of long-lost relations
means that I’m going to make my home with Mr. Lambert Stone, and that
the world is going to witness the meteoric rise of Betty Carew!”

“Betty!” he said in a low voice, “you’re going to marry me next
week!”

She shook her head.

“You’re going to marry me next week,” he repeated doggedly. “Nothing
in God’s world will stop that.”

“There is something that will stop it.” She had taken a sudden
resolve. “I can’t marry you.”

“Why not?”

She hesitated, summoning all her reserves of courage.

“Because I’m Joshua Laffin’s wife--I married him three years ago!”




 CHAPTER XXX.
 DOPE

“It happened on my seventeenth birthday,” she went on in a lifeless
voice. “I had discovered something about the doctor; he had been
guilty of a most heartless fraud. I was acting as his secretary at the
time, and I detected him in the act of forging a document which
transferred property to him of an old man who was his patient. I
didn’t know then why he did it, but he insisted that I should marry
him right away. I was terrified, until he had promised me that, if I
agreed, he would let me live by myself somewhere. Like a fool, the
chance of gaining my liberty at the expense of such a bondage was so
alluring that I agreed, and we were married before the registrar. The
same day I moved into the rooms which I have occupied off and on ever
since.”

“He doesn’t love you?”

She shook her head.

“He made that clear on the day of our wedding, and he has taunted me
many times since that I trapped him into the marriage. The truth was
that he feared a criminal prosecution would follow the discovery of
the forgery, and he married me to keep my mouth shut, knowing that a
wife may not give evidence against her husband.”

Clive Lowbridge sat motionless.

“I never guessed,” he said simply.

“Of course, I can divorce him, and I should do that if”--she shrugged
her shoulders--“if there were any excuse. But, Clive, he has given me
nothing; his life is austere; he has never been really cruel to
me--not cruel enough to secure a divorce in England. I’m just shelved
until he dies.”

“The old devil!” he whispered.

A soft knock on the panel of the door. He turned with a start as
Benson came in, carrying a silver tray.

“Mr. William Holbrook is below, sir.”

“Here? What does he want?” said Clive in surprise. “Ask him up,
Benson, and put another cup for him.”

Bill looked white and drawn.

“You been in the wars, too, Holbrook?” asked Clive good-humouredly.

“Somewhat,” was the laconic reply. “How do you do, Miss Stone? I
didn’t expect to find you here.”

Her lips twitched at the “Miss Stone.”

“You ought to be in hospital.”

“I really ought to be in an insane asylum,” said Holbrook as he sat
down. “Have you seen your respected relative?”

“He hasn’t deigned to call upon me,” she said, “and I am not very
sorry.”

Bill grunted something.

“The doctor is--strange,” he said aloud, and she felt that he was
showing admirable restraint.

Clive was wondering what was the object of the reporter’s call, until
Bill Holbrook caught his eye, then, taking advantage of Betty’s
discreet retirement to admire the window-boxes, they walked out of the
room.

“I want to put a question to you, Lord Lowbridge. Do you know anything
about the Sons of Ragousa?”

“I know something, yes, as much as most people know. It is a friendly
society, is it not?”

“Hardly that,” said Bill, grimly. “But are you aware that Laffin
holds a very high position in the order?”

“No, that is news to me,” said the other frankly. “In fact, it is so
incredible that I take leave to doubt----”

“It’s a fact,” interrupted Bill. “He is the head of the Twenty-Third
Degree.”

“The news is surprising, and yet not surprising,” said Lowbridge,
after a pause. “His eccentricities are proverbial. Was it to tell me
this that you called?”

“Partly,” said Bill, “and partly to ask you whether you saw anything
of him the night Miss Carew disappeared?”

Lowbridge shook his head.

“He could not possibly have had anything to do with the abduction,”
he said. “He was on the telephone to me at midnight, and asked me to
go round to his place to see him about an impoverished property of
mine in which he is interested. Of course, I did not go.”

“He was establishing an alibi?” suggested Holbrook.

“I hardly think so. It was not remarkable in him to call me up at that
hour, for the doctor has no idea of time. As you are probably aware,
he does not sleep like a normal man, but has those queer ten-minute
intervals of unconsciousness which seem to satisfy all his needs. I
saw him the following day; he called here on the same matter, and I’ll
swear that he was in town that same night, for I went to his place and
stayed with him for the greater part of an hour…” he hesitated. “I
ought to tell you that his great scheme of transferring my land had
the elements of trickery in it that annoyed me most intensely. I only
discovered it last night. You probably noticed, when you came to
Camden Road, that I was rather heated? The man has no conscience and
no scruples. He puzzles me sometimes, at other times he fills me with
despair. For under his eccentricities, there is something about him
that I like, and I shall not, of course, forget our earlier
association, when he gave me his time and his genius to educate me.
But what do you mean about the Sons of Ragousa? That seems a fairly
inoffensive association. Do you think they were concerned in the
kidnapping of Miss Carew?”

“I don’t think so, I am certain,” said Bill vigorously. “Laffin may
not have been a member of the party, but I’ll swear he directed
operations.”

Clive came back alone, to Betty Carew’s surprise.

“Where is the tireless Mr. Holbrook?” she asked.

“Gone. He’s on Laffin’s track, and is obsessed with the idea that the
old man was responsible for your kidnapping, and, upon my word, he’s
almost convinced me! Betty, do you remember--can you concentrate your
mind upon the forty-eight hours you disappeared? Can you recall any
single incident which would help us?”

“Yes, I think I can,” she said quietly. “The incidents are beginning
to sort themselves out, and whilst I recognise that most of them are
absurd and fantastical, the chapel and the masked men----”

“Chapel?” he said quickly. “What do you mean?”

She laughed softly.

“In a day or two I shall probably realise that these are fantasies
also. But I have a recollection of being taken into a chapel--a tiny
little place, with men who looked like monks, sitting in the stalls on
each side of the altar; and I’m sure I heard the voice of the man who
came to me at the store for the message. He gave me something, a
book--I am certain it was a book--and called me the ‘Long Desired.’
Before and after that, my memory is a confusion of impossible
happenings. But of that time I am certain. I am going to write it down
to-night for Mr. Bullott.”

He strode up and down the room, his hands behind him, his brow knit in
thought. Then he rang the bell, and, to Benson, who appeared
immediately:

“Get me all the evening newspapers that are on the streets,” he said.
“You may have to go to Piccadilly for the _Globe-News_, but get it.”

“Why?” she asked in surprise, after Benson had disappeared.

“I have a theory. It is only a theory, and I think it can be tested by
the information that has already been published.”

“Clive, you’re a bundle of nerves!”

“Have I reason?” he asked. “I’ve had the misery of your abduction,
and on top of it all, the terrific news you have given me about
Laffin. You’ll get the marriage annulled, of course?”

“Excuse me, sir.”

It was Benson, who had come in noiselessly.

“When you said all the newspapers, did your lordship mean the
Socialistic journals?” he asked. “Your lordship has forbidden those
newspapers to be brought into the house.”

“Of course, I mean them all,” said Clive, with a touch of asperity.

When the man had bowed himself out:

“Why the dickens did he come back?”

“Nerves again!” she laughed. She took up her cup. “Is it cigarettes
or this insidious little cup?”

“Both,” he said, and swallowed the hot tea with a wry face.

In a much shorter time than he had expected, Benson returned and laid
the newspapers at his master’s elbow. Clive opened one at random,
skimmed the news, opened another and a third, and finally threw the
journals on the floor in disgust.

“There’s nothing new here at all,” he said.

He spoke a little thickly. She looked at him in alarm; his face had
gone white, his eyes had a queer, glazed appearance, and when he rose
to his feet he stumbled, and would have fallen if she had not assisted
him.

“What is the matter, Clive?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He passed his hand across his forehead. “Something
queer,” he muttered.

She pressed the bell, and Benson came in almost immediately, and
together they laid Lowbridge upon a sofa. His eyes were closed, his
breathing was heavy, and when she spoke to him he did not answer.

“What is the matter, Benson?” she asked in alarm.

Benson stooped, lifted the eyelids of the unconscious man.

“I think he has been drugged, Madam,” he said blandly.




 CHAPTER XXXI.
 IN EPPING FOREST

“I think, if you will leave him with me, he will be all right,”
said Benson. He was feeling Clive’s pulse with a professional touch.
“The heart action is normal, and there is nothing to be alarmed about.
If you would prefer that I called a doctor----”

“Indeed I would,” she said emphatically.

He bowed, and presently she heard his voice at the telephone. Until a
neighbouring doctor arrived she did not leave the unconscious Clive.

“It is nothing,” said the medical man. “He hasn’t been smoking
opium?”

She shook her head.

“Has he been smoking at all?” The doctor looked down at the cigarette
ends in the hearth. “Egyptian cigarettes, I see? It often happens that
these cigarettes contain opium in large or small quantities,
introduced, in my opinion, by the makers, to give them flavour…
sometimes through the carelessness of the workpeople an additional
quantity gets into the tobacco.…”

He expounded his theory at length. When Clive was showing some sign of
returning consciousness she left him in the doctor’s charge and drove
home, and, about an hour later, he himself telephoned to say that he
had quite recovered.

“That fool of a doctor thought it was dope in the cigarettes,” he
said, “but I’m perfectly satisfied that my cigarettes are as harmless
as candy; and, what is more, if they’re Egyptian, they’re made in
England.”

“You’re not ill, are you, Clive?” she asked anxiously.

“No, I’m not ill, but I’m infernally suspicious.”

He did not elucidate this cryptic remark, and when she called him
again later in the evening, he was his old, cheerful self, and did not
discuss the queer happening of the afternoon.

“I have Mr. Bullott with me now,” he said, lowering his voice. “You
haven’t seen him, by any chance?”

“No,” she replied.

“I’ve been telling him about the dream you can remember. He doesn’t
seem to be impressed.”

She cared very little whether Mr. Bullott was impressed or not. Her
main grievance against the detective was that there had come a new
lodger to the house that afternoon, and her landlady, in a flutter,
had informed her that the ground floor room, so long empty because of
the extortionate price demanded (the landlady dreamt dreams of
entertaining a wealthy American family) had been let to a man she
knew, through some obscure source of family information,--a detective.

She did not think it necessary to tell Clive this, but a great deal of
her resentment at being treated as somebody who needed watching
disappeared toward bedtime.

Although she was very tired, she did not fall asleep readily, turning
from side to side, her mind a confusion of thoughts and recollections.
Towards one o’clock she remembered, with a sense of dismay, that she
had accepted an invitation to breakfast with her new-found uncle in
Albemarle Street, and by sheer force of will she drove herself into
sleep.

And then she felt the dreams beginning all over again. The movement,
the sensation that somebody had his arm about her shoulder, and that
horrid, burning pain in her right forearm. She struggled more
desperately to regain consciousness than she had on the previous
occasion, flung out her arms wildly, and felt her knuckles bruise
against something hard. Then the creak of a door, footsteps on the
stairs, and the sound of a struggle in the hall. Somebody screamed; it
was the landlady. Then there was a sound like a violent explosion,
which she guessed was the street door slamming, and with trembling
hands she switched on the light.

Her room door was open, and as she stepped out unsteadily on to the
landing the light came on in the hall, and she saw a man in violently
striped pyjamas, struggling into his overcoat.

“It’s all right, Miss,” he called up, and she guessed, rather than
knew, that this was the detective that Bullott had put into the house.

She went back to her room, and after ten minutes there was a gentle
tap. She opened the door to find the detective.

“Did they come into your room? There were two of them,” he said. “I
don’t know what made me sleep. They must have been as silent as
cats.”

“Who was it?” she asked tremulously.

“I don’t know, Miss. There were two of them.” He rubbed his head, and
under his hand she saw a lump like a pigeon’s egg. “They coshed me,”
he said tersely. “Do you mind if I come into your room and have a look
round?”

The shivering landlady had joined the party by now, and stood with
Betty watching the detective conduct his search. He stooped to pick
something from the floor.

“Here’s a hypodermic, half filled with something,” he said, shaking
it. “No, there’s nothing else, as far as I can see. Gosh, that fellow
was a big ’un--the man that hit me! I guess his heart was pure all
right.”

“Why?” she asked innocently.

“Because he had the strength of ten,” said Officer Brown, and
evidently this was a stock jest with him, for he shook with laughter.
“There’s no other trouble? You’ll have to get some bolts on that door
and a chain.”

“Do you think they came after me?” she asked.

“Yes, and I ought to be kicked for letting them get past me. Bullott
told me to shoot, but I’ve got an Englishman’s constitutional
objection to using a gun.”

Apparently he telephoned to Bullott, for later, as she was dropping to
sleep, she heard that officer’s voice in the hall, and, looking at the
phosphorescent dial of her watch, saw that it was a quarter to three.
She heard no more, for she slept steadily till her landlady wakened
her at half-past eight.

“Mr. Brown says you’re not to go by ’bus or train; he has a car
waiting for you,” was her remarkable news, and Betty found that this
was the case. Looking out of the window, she saw a handsome saloon,
obviously hired, and it was in state that she drove up to Albemarle
Court, and Lambert Stone, waiting for her on the tiny balcony of his
study-drawing-room, chuckled to himself.

“You are sensible, after all,” he said, as he took her wrap. “I told
you to spend money----”

“The car doesn’t belong to me,” she interrupted solemnly. “I wouldn’t
have been guilty of such a piece of extravagance! But Mr. Bullott
thinks that, having been abducted once, and a second attempt having
been made, the third time may pay for all.”

He listened with a grave face while she tried to make light of her
second adventure of the night.

“That’s bad,” he said. “Young lady, I’m going to take you off to
America.”

“Not really?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “We’re sailing on the _Escorial_; on Saturday
week--I booked the tickets provisionally last night. You needn’t stay
in America,” he went on hastily. “I promise you that I will not
attempt to make an heiress of you. But you ought to see our great
country, and somehow I think you’ll come often when you’ve seen it
once! And I’m making up a party; I’ve just been on to Lowbridge, and
he has promised to be my guest. I’ll even invite your favourite
reporter----”

“Please don’t,” she asked hastily, “if by ‘favourite reporter’ you
mean Mr. Holbrook.”

He laughed again. “Why, that’s unkind,” he said, “considering William
discovered you--William and his questionable friend. Anyway, you’ll
come?”

“It will be fun. Where do we go--to New York?”

“New York will hardly suit you in July,” he said, with a twinkle in
his eye. “No, we’re going up to my camp in the Adirondacks. That will
be an experience for you, young lady, and I shall be able to look
after you there, with Laffin three thousand five hundred miles away.”

“You still believe Dr. Laffin is the villain of the piece?” she
asked.

“We all believe that--Holbrook, Bullott and I. I haven’t asked
Lowbridge; I guess he’s too loyal to say what he thinks!”

On the following Sunday afternoon Bill Holbrook awoke from his
afternoon doze, struggled sleepily to his feet and filled his pipe
before he went out and filled his bath. His unfinished notes for
Monday’s newspaper lay on his table, and he read them over, his lip
curling at the thought of his own inadequacy.

“Padding,” he growled, “padding and stalling!”

And he was not far from the truth. The Brother John murder had ceased
to fill the important columns of the newspapers, and had been
relegated to ten-line paragraphs on inside pages. Newer matters of
public interest usurped the leading columns, and Bill Holbrook’s
_raison d’être_ was disappearing.

When he had come out of his bath and returned to his room, he found
Bullott in his shirt-sleeves, a pipe between his teeth, a scowl of
misery on his face. He stood glaring out of the window at his garden.

“Cheer up, misery,” grunted Bill. “It is I who am going to be killed
to-night!”

“You’re not going on the Epping Road.”

“Why not?” asked Bill. “It will be broad daylight at nine o’clock;
the road will be alive with cyclists and motor-cars; nobody is going
to kidnap me.”

“I can’t understand this affair. I’m well out of my depth,” he said.
“I suppose I ought really to hand over my job to a real policeman.”

“Real nothing!” snarled Bill. “What’s the matter with you, Cuthbert?
Do you expect things to unfold themselves as quickly as they would in
a short story? You’re nutty! You’re finding out something new every
day!”

“But is it worth finding out?” demanded the other, in a tone of
complete weariness. “I seem to spend my time discovering the roots of
other trees! Do you remember some time ago telling me about an immense
sea captain you’d met--a big man with a voice like a foghorn?”

Bill nodded.

“I saw him to-day,” Bullott went on, “and trailed him--to where do
you think? To a respectable lodging in Bloomsbury, where he goes to
bed at ten every night and gets up at six every morning, and doesn’t
do anything more criminal than smoke cigarettes. So they tell me--yet
if Harvey Hale wasn’t one of the people who tried to lift Miss Carew
last night I’m a lunatic. I told Marsh this, and the poor mysterious
hound got so excited, you might have thought I’d given him information
that the murderer of Brother John was under lock and key!”

“Maybe his excitement was justified,” said Bill. “When are you making
your raid?”

“To-morrow night--unless I get fired from this job before,” said
Bullott.

“You have had no word from Tinker Lane?”

Bullott’s grimace was the answer.

“He has got cold feet,” he said; “possibly one of the Twenty-Third
Degree folk tipped him off that he was running risks--you can easily
scare that kind of fellow. Or, what is more likely, if there is any
sort of illegality in the degree they have paid him to skip.”

Bill shook his head.

“Did they pay Brother John to skip?” he asked, and Bullott did not
reply.


When Bill Holbrook reached the third milestone on the Epping Road, he
found that his prediction was more than fulfilled. As far as he could
see, the long forest road was covered with cyclists and motor-cars,
and the chance of a repetition of the attempt which had been made upon
him was even more remote than he had imagined.

The third milestone was a little difficult to discover; it stood back
from the roadway and was half-covered with undergrowth, but what had
an especial interest for him was the white envelope which must have
been placed there very recently, for the wood was filled with
strolling couples and it was hardly likely that the letter would have
escaped observation had it been in its place any considerable time.

Never doubting that it was for him, he pulled it from the thorny
briars which held it in its place, and, as he had expected, he found
his name written on the cover.


                     “Follow the red confetti,”


was all that it said.

He looked round; there was no sign of confetti, red or otherwise. And
then, peering into the cool depths of a wood, he thought he saw
something red on the ground, and went nearer. Yes, that was it, a
sprinkle of tiny red paper discs beneath a tree. He went a little
distance farther on, and now the trail was clear.

It led him along a well-worn path, and was so carefully laid that Bill
guessed that the average pleasure-seeker would not notice its
presence. After a while it left the path, branching off to the right,
and threading a way between the trees.

It was clear to him that the part of the wood through which he was now
moving was one which was very seldom visited by picnic parties. Every
few steps he took startled some wild creature in the underbrush. He
had a glimpse of a hare flying to his burrow; he saw a lithe black
shape darting through the grasses in pursuit of his quarry; and once
he disturbed a vixen with her prick-eared litter. And the red confetti
led on and on, until it crossed a small stream on the farther banks of
which his unknown guide had left the paper more thickly strewn that it
might not escape his attention.

He had to climb the bank before he came to a plantation of young
trees, so thick that it was with some difficulty that he made his way
into the depths. He stood and listened; no sound broke the stillness
of the quiet forest; the dusk was coming, the light in the sky had
deepened to a richer and darker blue; the dying sun’s rays shot
slantwise, and when he reached an open space his shadow ran at
incredible length along the grass before him.

The sun gave him his direction; he was travelling south-east, and had
been travelling south-east all the time, but suddenly the trail shot
off at right angles, and he followed cautiously, his hand upon the
round, hard object in his pocket, every sense alert.

Ten minutes’ walking brought him within view of a small lodge hut. It
lay in a clearance at the foot of the slope down which he was moving
when he first sighted the building. Again he stopped, looked and
listened, but saw and heard nothing. Down the gentle hill the trail
led to the rough door of the hut, and there stopped.

His heart was beating a little faster as he walked quickly to the
door, gripped the handle and pulled it wide open. The interior was in
darkness; he heard neither the breathing of men nor movement, and
looked round suspiciously at the darkening forest. He looked again
into the hut; his eyes were now accustomed to the gloom, and he saw
something moving, something that swayed left and right rhythmically.
He struck a match, and stepped back with a gasp of horror.

Hanging from a beam in the roof was the body of a man, and, as he
looked, the distorted face turned towards him. It was the face of the
Tinker!

Alone in that valley of death for a second, his courage deserted him,
and he felt his hands trembling.

“No weakness, Danton,” he quoted mockingly at himself, and, running
across the floor of the vale, mounted the slope, his eyes still
searching for the confetti trail, and went at a jogtrot back the way
he had come.

He had reached the plantation when he felt, rather than saw, the
ambush into which he was falling. Hampered as he was by the closely
growing trees, his progress was slow.

_Plop!_

He had heard that sound before, but this time the bullet missed, and
snicked the bark of a growing beech, and went, whining and humming,
into the wood.

The second shot went even wider, and then he came to a place where the
trees were less thickly planted, where he had had elbow room and a
clear throw. He stopped and took a Mills bomb from his pocket, pulled
out the pin, and as he saw the flash of a third shot, flung it with
all his might in the direction of the hidden assassin. In another
second he was flying like a man demented. He judged his time
perfectly, and flung himself on the ground only the fraction of a
moment before the bomb exploded. From somewhere behind he heard a
shriek, and, rising to his feet, ran swiftly.

He had missed the trail, but he had a rough idea of direction. Once he
stopped to take breath, listening intently, but there was no sign of
pursuit. Ten minutes later he heard voices and footsteps ahead of him,
saw a figure come into view, and was challenged by a familiar voice.

“It’s all right, Bullott--Holbrook speaking.”

“What was that explosion?” asked Bullott.

Bill saw that there were three men with him. It was not necessary to
ask what had brought him here, but the detective volunteered the
information.

“I followed you, of course,” he said, “but I lost you in the wood,
and I didn’t realise that they’d laid a trail for you, until one of my
men showed me the confetti. What was the explosion?” he asked again.

Bill explained briefly, and together they went back the way he had
come.

That somebody had been wounded was clear from the bloodstains. Some of
the dried undergrowth was burning, and this they put out with little
difficulty. But of the assailant there was no sign.

Sending one of his men back for an ambulance, the inspector
accompanied Bill to the hut in the vale. To Bill’s surprise the door
of the hut was locked, and it was an hour before they succeeded, with
the help of a ranger, in getting the door open. Bullott flashed his
lamp inside: it fell upon a loose, hanging rope, newly severed. The
body of Tinker Lane had disappeared!




 CHAPTER XXXII.
 TOBY MARSH GOES TO A PARTY

“It would take a week’s search to find the body,” said Bullott, as
they were driving home together. “There are dozens of pits and caves
into which they could have thrown him. It was an act of lunacy for you
to go there at all.”

“You’ll pinch Laffin, of course?” said Bill.

“No, sir,” he answered quietly. “I’ve no evidence upon which I can
arrest the doctor. I haven’t even got the body. But this I can tell
you, that Laffin is being watched closer than a fire! There is nothing
to do but to wait until the rangers discover the body, and that may
take weeks. We have one chance of connecting Laffin with these crimes.
I am taking that chance to-morrow night.”

“You mean the raid on the Priory?”

“There is no better time. Do you know what happens next week?”

“The only thing I know that happens next week is that the mysterious
twenty-ninth of July occurs on Saturday.”

“Next week they declare the Midsummer argosies of the Sons of
Ragousa,” said Bullott. “That means that the draw takes place either
Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday. I guess it is Monday, because your
cousin, Mr. Pawter, is arranging to leave London for Plymouth by the
10.30 train to-morrow morning.”

Bullott was not visible for the rest of the evening. He locked himself
up in his room and gave himself entirely to the problem of the Sons of
Ragousa. It was a problem seemingly insoluble. What importance should
he give to the mysterious hints of Toby Marsh? What could Marsh tell
him? His passion for secrecy had allowed him only to give the most
tantalising glimpses of his mind, and toward eleven o’clock Bullott
took a sudden decision. He kicked off his slippers, pulled on his
shoes, and, without saying a word to his lodger, who, he knew, was
working in his room, went out.

Soon after midnight a taxi brought him to Robbs Road, and to the house
which he knew was occupied by the burglar.

“Your luck’s in,” said Toby Marsh, who opened the door to him. “Five
minutes later, and you’d have missed me.”

“Are you going out?” asked Bullott, regarding him with professional
suspicion.

“I’m going out, but on a perfectly childlike errand,” said Toby
Marsh. “In fact, I’m going to a party, and if you’re a wise man you’ll
go home, get into your glad clothes and join me.”

Toby was wearing an old-fashioned tuxedo.

“You look good enough to eat,” said Bullott admiringly. “Where are
you going?”

“To Madame La Florette, at her palatial home on Portman Place,” said
Toby. “I’ve had an invitation by card, and I guess Jenny won’t object
if I bring a friend.”

Bullott’s first thought was to decline the invitation.

“I’ll go with you if you’ll tell me something I want to know.”

“Make no conditions, my busy friend,” said Toby, “I’m offering you
the experience of a lifetime. What do you want to know?”

“I want a little more information about Laffin.”

“I can tell you a whole lot,” said the other. “Laffin is at this
moment”--he looked at his watch--“interviewing Captain Harvey Hale,
that queer man of the sea. If you were sitting in his study you’d
learn no more than I already know, and which I’ll tell you in course
of time. By the way did the impetuous and inexperienced Mr. Holbrook
keep his appointment?”

“He did,” said the other grimly.

“And he got back alive. I guessed that because you’re not very
agitated. And did he find Tinker?”

“Yes; how did you know?”

“I guessed. Alive or dead?”

“Dead,” said Bullott.

“I was afraid that was how it would be. It occurred to me this
afternoon what an excellent opportunity there was for drama in that
wood, and there can be no doubt about the dramatic instincts of the
Ragousas.”

“Marsh, you know a little too much about this business,” said
Bullott, his old suspicions aroused.

“I’m beginning to think you’re right,” said Toby, with a sigh. “I
found myself dreaming about them last night--the Ragousas, I mean.”
He looked thoughtfully at the detective. “Are you pretty strong?” he
asked.

“Fairly,” said Bullott.

“Could you work four hours at a stretch in an atmosphere of a hundred
and four degrees?”

“Why?” asked the astounded Bullott.

“I’m asking you,” said the imperturbable burglar. “Would your
constitution stand up to it?”

“I think so; I am a fairly healthy man,” said Bullott. “But what’s
the mystery? Do you ever speak straight out and say what you mean,
Marsh?”

“Only when I plead not guilty,” said Mr. Marsh.

As Bullott opened the door of his house, Bill Holbrook came to the
head of the stairs, and was promptly invited to join the party; and,
guessing more from Marsh’s manner than from what he said, Bill, whose
inclinations were towards bed, changed quickly and joined the little
man in Bullott’s sitting-room.

“Here’s a strange thing, Holbrook,” said Toby. “Florette’s been in
that new house of hers about ten minutes. Well, say a couple of days.
You wouldn’t think she’d have got the invitations out so quick, would
you, as she has? And some swell performers have been engaged. Half the
stars at the opera have had a hurry-up call, and Bazley’s are doing
the refreshments.”

“She asked you, but she didn’t ask me; do I get thrown out?”

“You stick to me, boy,” said Toby, “and you’ll see something.”

There was very little to see when they reached Portman Place, except
masses of people. The ballroom was so crowded that dancing was
impossible. In the big drawing-room, the throng who had gathered to
listen to a great coloratura bulged out through the doorway into the
hall. And the harassed servants, newly engaged, challenged neither
Toby nor the two people who accompanied him.

Of La Florette there was no sign, but by judicious inquiry Marsh
discovered that there was a card-room on the ground floor, and it was
here that he met his hostess and introduced his friends. La Florette
favoured him with a mechanical smile, and shot a quick, surprised
glance from Holbrook to the detective.

“I’ve seen you somewhere, young man?” she said.

“A reporter on the _Post-Herald_,” said Toby in a stage whisper. “I
thought I’d bring him along in case you wanted any publicity.”

“Well, I don’t,” snapped Florette. “I’m very glad to see you, Mr.
What’s-your-name, but I don’t want anything about this party to go in
the newspapers.”

With a nod she passed on to join a grey-haired man, whose eyes had
never left her.

“That is Sir Richard Paxton, of the Treasury,” said Bill, recognising
him. “What is he doing in this galley?”

“Paxton has been a front-row lizard at all La Florette’s productions
for the past two years,” Toby answered.

“I’ve heard that Treasury officials go mad at fifty-five,” said Bill.
“This is one of those cases. I wonder who is paying the bill?”

Somebody else in the party was pondering that question. Mr. Charles
Van Campe was amazed, but also alarmed, at the prodigality of the
entertainment. He waited an opportunity, which was long in coming, to
take his friends to the little study at the back of the hall which she
had reserved for her own use that night.

“Kid, this is fine, I hope you’ve so fixed it with Laffin, that
there’s no come-back. Did he give you any money?”

She mentioned a sum and he whistled.

“That wouldn’t pay the breakage bill,” he said. “You want to see him
right away and get this scheme of his on a proper business basis. A
man told me yesterday that he’s near broke, and I know for a fact that
he’s only paid a deposit on the rent of this house.”

“He will not let me down,” she said, but she was a little uneasy.
“I’m ’phoning him to-night--I was hoping he would come, but he told me
he was too busy.”

“’Phone him now,” urged Van Campe, troubled.

She locked the door and called Laffin’s number.

“He’s probably in bed,” she said. “Those kind of men do not keep late
hours----”

Even as she spoke she heard Laffin’s gentle voice.

“It is La Florette speaking, Doctor,” she said in a low voice. “I
have the information you wanted.” And in two sentences she told him
all he wished to know, though she did not realise this until a long
time afterwards. “And Doctor, don’t you think it would be wise if you
let me have some money? The five hundred you sent me will not go very
far. The band has cost a hundred, and the people who supply the
refreshments want a cheque to-morrow morning.”

“That will be quite in order, Miss Florette,” said the soothing voice
of the doctor. “You need have no apprehension. I will send you a
cheque by the early morning delivery.”

Before she could urge this need still further, he had switched off.

“Well, that’s that,” she said with a sigh of relief. “I don’t think
you need worry, Charles. Now come and meet some of my friends.”

“Who is that queer-looking man in glasses?”

“He’s a friend of mother’s,” she said, bitterly regretting that, in a
moment of expansiveness, induced by Toby Marsh’s unblushing flattery,
she had sent him an invitation at all.

“I know the reporter who is with him; he ought to be able to get some
good publicity for you.”

“Dr. Laffin doesn’t want a word in the newspapers. Can you beat it?”
she said, with pardonable exasperation. “I’m supposed to be getting
publicity out of this stunt of his, and yet not a line must be
published!”

She saw the three standing in the hall together as she went back to
the ballroom, and observed with satisfaction that Mr. Marsh was being
helped into his coat.

Toby was the first to leave, and stood waiting for the other two
whilst the footman found their belongings. Bill had walked out on to
the street, and Bullott was following, when he heard the footman say:

“Excuse me, sir,” and felt in his pocket for a tip. “Can I have a
word with you?”

The detective looked at the servant in surprise.

“Yes, certainly,” he said.

The footman came with him to the sidewalk.

“You don’t know me, sir, but I know you. You’re Mr. Bullott of
Headquarters, aren’t you?”

“That is so,” said Bullott, as the man made a sign. “You’re a
Ragousa?”

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” the man went on. “I was at the
lodge when you were initiated. You wouldn’t know me, because I was one
of the two men who put on your robes.”

Bullott remembered the two attendants in the anteroom who had assisted
himself and Bill Holbrook to don the livery of the Proud Sons.

“What I wanted to ask you, sir, was this,” said the man, lowering his
voice and glancing back at the open door. “Do you think everything is
all square and above-board with the Ragousas? It used to be,” he went
on quickly. “When I joined the order, about ten years ago, it was one
of the most brotherly societies you could wish for. And don’t think,
sir, that I’m trying to knock the order because they put me down from
the Twenty-Third and made me a small lodge member. We don’t mind that,
because it has happened to so many of us, and, after all, it’s an
honour to have been up above at all.”

“You were a Twenty-Third Degree-er, were you?”

“Yes, sir, I was a member of the Twenty-Third Degree for five years,
until I got the order from the Worshipful Master that I was to return
to the lower lodge. As I say, there’s nothing in that, but what I
can’t understand is the queer birds who are taking our place.”

“Where does the Twenty-Third Degree meet?”

The man hesitated.

“That’s a thing I’m not supposed to tell you, sir, but as I’ve said so
much, I might as well say a little more. They work the degree at the
Deptford Lodge. As a matter of fact, there isn’t a Deptford Lodge at
all, for although it is supposed to be just an ordinary lodge, only
Twenty-Third Degree men are members.”

“What kind of fellows are being initiated into the Twenty-Third?”

“The scum of the earth,” said the man emphatically. “If they’d raked
the mud of the Thames, they couldn’t have got up worse specimens!
There isn’t a riverside thief that hasn’t been initiated. The proper
number for the Twenty-Third is fifty members, but now there must be a
hundred.”

“Give me the address of the lodge-room,” said Bullott, and scribbled
it down on his shirt-cuff.

“You don’t mind me telling you this?” asked the footman anxiously. “I
feel I’m betraying the Order, and the Ragousas do queer things to
people who talk too much.”

“You can trust me,” said Bullott, and bidding good-night to the
footman he walked quickly after his two companions, who were slowly
pacing towards Oxford Circus.

“Mr. Yellowplush is one of your men, I suppose?” said Toby Marsh, and
Bullott did not correct that mistaken impression.

Mr. Toby Marsh did not return to his lodgings, but pursued his way to
the Camden Road. Not a hundred yards from Dr. Laffin’s house was a
group of small shops huddled together as though in fear of the
encroachments of their more pretentious neighbours. Each had its
narrow front, its small side door which led to the regions above, and
in the lock of one of these, Mr. Marsh inserted a key and passed
through.

At the end of the cramped passage a flight of stairs led to the upper
floors. He did not stop until he reached the poorly furnished attic
room which he had rented a few weeks before. Lighting the gas, he
pulled down the window shade carefully, and care was needed, for
through the open window top trailed a wire which ran to a small box
and a pair of headphones that stood on the wash-stand.

When he had excluded himself from chance observation, he pulled up a
chair, and, fixing the receivers to his ear, sat down to listen. What
he heard was apparently all-engrossing, for he did not stir for an
hour except to jot down a note or two on the writing-pad which lay
convenient to his hand. At the end of the hour, he took off his
’phones and, rising, stretched himself.

From the bottom of a cupboard he took out a small, leather case,
opened it and removed one by one the instruments of his craft,
delicate little tools, larger ones, ingeniously devised and fitting
together by clamps and screws, keys of unusual pattern, saws of
strange shape--he laid them on the bed and surveyed them with a
speculative eye.

Looking out of the window, he saw, to his surprise, that the sky was
going grey, and this fact apparently brought about an alteration of
his plans, for he replaced the tools one by one, and five minutes
later was walking briskly down Camden Road. A plain-clothes patrol saw
his gleaming spectacles, noted the handbag he carried, and turned
toward him.

“Good morning, Toby.”

“Good morning, Sergeant.”

Toby stopped.

“Early to rise, wealthy and wise,” said the detective. “Got a crop of
early worms in that little bag of yours?”

Without a word Toby handed over the bag, and without a word the
officer opened and searched. He found nothing but a dozen folders
dealing with the joys and comforts of Atlantic travel.

“Thinking of going abroad, Toby?” he smiled, as he snapped the bag
close and handed it back.

“Yep. My doctor has recommended a sea voyage.”

“You’ve found a nice boat--the _Escorial_. I almost thought you’d been
smashing a shipping office when I saw those folders.” The detective
was still in doubt, and, putting down his bag, Toby Marsh extended his
arms.

“Run me over, son--you’re itching to do it, and I’m in a hurry.”

The officer’s palms ran lightly over Toby Marsh.

“Clean bill,” he said. “Sorry to pull you up, but there’s something
very sinister about early rising.”

“Good morning.”

Toby passed on without annoyance. The officer had not searched his
hat, in the lining of which were three small keys, two of which gave
him the entrance to Dr. Laffin’s house, and the other to the last
place in the world that even Bullott would have imagined.




 CHAPTER XXXIII.
 THE LISTENER IN THE CHIMNEY

Dr. Laffin had spent the greater part of the evening with a
companion who, æsthetically, was repugnant to him, but in other ways
was a wholly desirable associate. He finished his short conversation
with La Florette, pushed aside the telephone and, leaning back in his
chair, watched his guest pull the cork from a second large bottle and
pour the yellow, bubbling fluid into a large wine-glass that stood on
the edge of the writing desk.

Captain Harvey Hale was a man of no particular reticence, and not even
the somewhat chilling atmosphere of that dark study, nor the eerie
references which the doctor made to unseen presences, dulled his
geniality in such moments as these.

“Land work,” he said, smacking his lips, “or sea work, it’s all one
to Harvey Hale. You can’t help accidents, or, as we call them at sea,
the acts of God, and you can’t stop men like this blooming Holbrook
wriggling out of a trap, it doesn’t matter how clever you are.
Personally, I think it’s a waste of time bothering with a
whippersnapper like that--a man I could break in two across my knee.”
He lifted his glass. “To the sunny islands and lashings of money!”

He drained its contents at a gulp.

“You couldn’t have come to a better man than me, Commodore,” he said,
nodding his head slowly.

“You have spoken to the men?”

“Spoken to them?” The room shook with the sea captain’s laughter.
“You don’t want to speak to that kind of cattle; you just give them an
order and that’s enough. They know me; there isn’t a sailorman that’s
shipped before the mast who doesn’t know Harvey ’Ale.”

In his cups the captain was inclined to take liberties with the
English language.

“They’re ripe and willing. They know there’s a big job ahead, and
they’re ready to do it. What is it, Doctor?”

“You’ll know in good time,” said Laffin. “It may not be necessary:
everything depends upon to-morrow, my good friend. In my life I have
had one very grave disappointment, the gravest that any man could
face. That a second should await me seems incredible, and yet there is
that possibility.”

His visitor growled something under his breath.

“I hope you’re disappointed, that’s all,” he said. “That is, if it
gives a chance to Harvey Hale to do something big. What are you going
to do about that girl?”

Dr. Laffin’s lips pressed tightly together, but he did not answer.

“It wasn’t my fault that we didn’t get her the second time. I got her
first time all right, didn’t I? Why didn’t you keep her? That was your
fault? How was I to know that they’d got a ‘busy’ downstairs sleeping
on the premises?”

“I’m not blaming you,” said the doctor in his mincing way. “Believe
me, I do not blame you. The fates were not propitious. My supreme
genius, the mighty Kemelsina, master of my destiny”--he waved an airy
hand to the cornice, and instinctively Hale looked up as though he
expected to find a material manifestation--“my great exemplar was not
in sympathy with the movement.”

Before him was spread a double sheet of foolscap, and once more he
adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, and with his finger moving down each
line of writing, he perused the document from beginning to end in
silence.

“You have sent the first party away?” asked Laffin.

“They’ve arrived. I had a cable from them this morning,” said Hale,
“ready and willing and hearty.”

“Who has the sealed envelope?”

“Collinson’s in charge,” said Harvey Hale. “He’s a good seaman and
knows all about sealed orders. You can trust him, Commodore. I’ve told
him if he breaks the seal I’ll break his head! He knows me--sailed
with me a dozen times. When Harvey Hale says he’ll break a man’s head,
by God, it’s as good as broken! I’m that way, Commodore. My word’s as
good as a lawyer’s agreement, stamped and sealed. There ain’t a man
from Shanghai to Valp’riso that doesn’t know that when I say a thing I
mean it.”

“Yes, yes,” said Laffin testily. “I suppose in your brutal way you
have the elements of greatness. I am large enough to recognise your
claims. But behind this scheme is a mentality beyond your
understanding, a genius outside the range of your comprehension. You
are an instrument, Captain, please remember that; merely the
instrument, that is wielded by my gigantic intellect.”

“We are two big men together,” said Captain Hale comfortably. “Put it
there, Commodore!”

Dr. Laffin ignored the extended hand.

“Now go home, my friend. I think you have drunk enough. From now on
you keep sober--you understand?”

“Drink has never meant anything to me,” said the captain, rising, and
considering the quantity he had consumed that evening, both his speech
and his poise were extraordinarily steady. “I could drink a distillery
dry and walk a chalk line. Ask any man you’ve ever met who knows the
sea, has he ever seen Harvey Hale drunk? What will they answer?”

Dr. Laffin did not trouble to inquire. He walked into the passage,
opened the door, and cut short a further panegyric on the merits and
qualities of Harvey Hale by closing the door gently in the face of
that worthy man.

He did not return to his study, but went upstairs to the top floor,
where he had imprisoned Betty Carew. The door which Holbrook had
broken had been repaired, and fastened even more securely. He was in
the “suite” for ten minutes before he came back to the study. A
somewhat tidy minded man, he gathered together a number of notes he
had made, examined them one by one, and finally, after half an hour’s
memorising, carried the scraps of paper to the fireplace, struck a
match and lit them. As they blazed up, a puff of smoke came out into
the room; it was as though the chimney was blocked. He stooped and
looked up. Concealed from view by the edge of the fireplace, and
half-resting on a brick projection, was a small black box.

He stamped out the paper fire, reached up and tried to pull it down,
but it was fastened to something. He pulled with all his strength;
there was a snap, and the box came away in his hand.

Now he saw what had held it in place: a long strand of wire, which he
had snapped. The box, which was black with soot and had evidently been
lowered down the chimney, was about six inches square, and roughly
made. He put it on his table and examined it curiously; then, with the
aid of a pair of scissors, he ripped off one side, and had no need to
look further to discover the significance of his find. It was a
sensitive microphone.

For a second his face went grey. Who had placed it there? What had
been heard?

He passed out of the room, up the stairs, and through the locked door
of the top floor suite. In a locked lumber-room at the back of the
house was a small trap-door that led to the roof, which served as an
emergency fire escape. In five minutes he was walking along the flat
roof until he was brought up by a high chimney stack.

Yes, there it was--from one of the chimney pots a length of wire led
across the roof and down one side of the house. To make any further
search that night was impracticable. What should he do?

He sat until dawn showed, his malignant eyes fixed upon the telltale
instrument, and then, with some labour, he replaced the box where he
had found it and made a rough splice of the broken wire. Whoever was
listening should hear something a little more puzzling than they had
heard before.




 CHAPTER XXXIV.
 MR. PAWTER EXPLAINS

Mr. Pawter was in his office when Bill called. He was reading a
newspaper, whistling softly the while, a practice peculiar to men of
an equable temperament.

“The return of the wanderer,” he murmured. “Please tell the cashier
to have the fatted calf slaughtered with appropriate ceremony. You
will find your room in order, and your desk so innocent of muddle that
you will hardly feel at home for a day or two. And----”

“Pips, I want a story out of you,” said Bill, seating himself on the
other side of the table.

“You are still engaged in the profession from which I rescued you?”
he asked wearily. “And you want a story? I should be false to the
traditions of my agency if I missed a chance of getting good
publicity. What is the story? Does it pay to advertise? Yes, it
does.”

“Pips,” interrupted Bill again, “the story I want is about a priory
and a Seen Prior.”

Mr. Pawter eyed him steadily.

“That is exactly the kind of story I can’t give you,” he said, “not
for publication anyway.”

“I don’t want it for publication. I want to know what you are in this
outfit.”

“You seem to know already,” Mr. Pawter smiled faintly. “I am a
Prior--in other words, I am the accountant of the Proud Sons of
Ragousa. You didn’t know that I was an accountant? Accountancy was my
long suit, and I am a member of the Chartered Society. There is
nothing mysterious about me, William. I am surprised you should have
imagined there was.”

“Did you know Brother John?”

Pawter’s face became instantly grave.

“Yes, I knew him,” he said quietly. And then, after long reflection:
“I’d better tell you the story of my connection with this society. The
head of the Ragousas, as you probably know, is Mr. Leiff Stone.
Ragousa, as you will know if any of your school learning remains, was
at one time the richest town in Dalmatia, the port from which the
argosies sailed--‘argosy’ means literally ‘a vessel of Ragousa.’ Many
years ago I was associated with Stone in business, and when he had got
the Order running, and his prize scheme had caught on to such an
extent that members were flocking into the Order, he sent for me and
asked if I would put it upon a proper business basis. Naturally, it
was not the kind of thing which greatly interested me--secret
societies and all that sort of stuff--but there were very many reasons
why I should take up the work. In the first place, two thousand a
year----”

“Dollars?” asked Bill.

“I am speaking of our own depleted currency,” said Mr. Pawter. “No,
two thousand pounds was the salary offered to me, and a very
acceptable sum it was. I did not like the lottery idea very much; as a
business man it had no appeal for me, and, moreover, it struck me that
it erred on the side of illegality. However, the police seemed
satisfied that the Ragousas should have their argosies, and who am I
to oppose my opinion to the law officers of the Crown? I undertook the
work, but on the understanding that I should not be one of the masks.
I pointed out to Leiff Stone the extraordinary opportunities that
existed in the Order for impersonation and fraud, unless there was one
man whom everybody knew by sight, and who could be distinguished from
the rest of the crowd. He fell in with my views, and ever since it has
been my duty to draw the numbers which bring fortune to members of the
Order.”

“Just a minute,” interrupted Bill. “The revenue of the Ragousas is a
pretty heavy one, isn’t it?”

“It has a turnover of something between six hundred and seven hundred
thousand pounds a year, and half of that goes in argosies--nearly
half.”

“Now is it possible,” said Bill, “for a swindler to obtain admission
to the Priory, and, by impersonating one or the other officers, secure
a hold of that money?”

“Absolutely impossible,” said Pawter emphatically, and Bill showed
his surprise. “The grafter who tried that would get the shock of his
life. Nobody, not even the Grand Prior himself, can touch any of the
money, and certainly cannot touch the prize money. I will explain the
system. When a man is initiated into the Proud Sons of Ragousa, he
pays ten dollars; he pays another ten dollars every year. Half of that
money is banked by the local lodge in what is known as ‘A’ account,
with the London, Southern & Northern Bank. That is, in fact, the prize
fund, which is only released to the men who win the argosies, on a
cheque signed by me and initialled by the Grand Prior. Is that
clear?”

Bill nodded.

“Of the other pound--the other half of your subscription that is to
say--a proportion is retained for working expenses of the lodge, and
the remainder, a definite sum, is remitted to the Grand Priory. It is,
I might tell you, a very insignificant amount--I refer to the amount
that goes to headquarters--just sufficient to keep the Priory running,
with very little surplus, and it is known as the Prior’s Tax. So
obviously there is nothing to be gained from getting control of the
Priory. The only big stuff that is handled is the Argosy Fund, which
is never really in the Prior’s hands.”

“What about the Twenty-Third Degree?”

“That also has a small income,” nodded Pawter, “and the Grand Lodge
is in the same case--there are no surpluses.”

“Isn’t it possible to fake the draw?”

“I draw the numbers, bare-armed. There are really five draws,” he
explained, “and the Priors, who sit in council beforehand, decide
which of the five shall be the ‘true draw.’ So I am absolutely in
ignorance as to which they will decide upon, and I could not fake if I
wanted to. The five numbers, or the five groups of numbers, are
written down, and then the Priors tell me which of the groups is the
‘true draw,’ and there is nothing more for me to do but to turn up the
names that correspond with the numbers and forward the cheques.”

“The more businesslike the Ragousas become, the more mysterious they
are!” he said. “There doesn’t seem to be a foothold for a crook,
unless the crook happens to be you.”

“Even I haven’t much of a chance,” he began.

“Tell me one thing: have you ever seen Leiff Stone’s face since he
became a Prior?”

“I know him only by his purple gown. If I met him to-day in the street
I should not recognise him.”

“Who was Brother John?”

“Brother John was the Grand Prior’s assistant, and was the only parson
in the bunch.”

“What is there concealed at the Priory?”

“Nothing,” said Pawter emphatically. “I know the Priory from gate to
cellar. I know every cell in it, every inch of it, and I tell you that
if there’s anything more innocent than a Prior of the Proud Sons of
Ragousa.”

Poor Bullott, thought Bill! The raid was abortive before it was made.
But he could not tell the inspector this or take the responsibility
for checking his plans.

“Have you the least suspicion of an idea in your mind why Brother John
was murdered?”

“Not the least. He was a man without enemies, a man who had no private
feuds; beyond his devotion to Stone, I know of no very great
friendship of his. The murder is inexplicable, and I can only suppose
that the shot fired at Brother John was either intended for somebody
else, or----”

“Don’t say it was an accident,” said Bill, “because that kind of
accident hardly happens twice in twenty-four hours. The man who shot
Brother John took one good crack at me, and nearly got me.”

“There are certain advantages in having a small head,” murmured Mr.
Pawter as he closed the door upon his sometime assistant.




 CHAPTER XXXV.
 THE PRIORY

At six o’clock that summer evening a station taxi dropped Mr. Pawter
at the Two Bridges Hotel, an ancient hostelry set in the heart of
Dartmoor. He paid the driver and watched the machine grow smaller and
smaller on the long road that led to Newton Abbot, and then he went
into the hotel, engaged a room and ordered his meal. He was evidently
no stranger to the place, for the old waiter greeted him as a friend.

“Going up to see them Priors to-night, sir?” he asked the identical
question that he had asked some twenty times before, and Mr. Pawter
gave him the conventional answer. “They’ve been busy up at the Priory
lately,” said the old man as he laid the cloth. “I don’t remember
when we’ve seen so many people going and coming. Motor cars all hours
of the day and night. And somebody’s been sick there, too: I saw an
ambulance going up--when was it? Must have been last week sometime.
I’ve got a cottage right on the road,” said the garrulous old
gentleman, pausing with his hands full of knives and forks and
tableware. “You can’t go to the Priory without passing me. And what
with my rheumatics, I haven’t been sleeping as well as I might. As you
might say, my cottage is a sort of a lodge for the Priory. Monks,
ain’t they, sir?”

“Sort of monks,” said Pawter.

“I don’t know what good they get out of shutting themselves up all
their lives, but they’re as close as oysters. You never see any of
them down here, not even the lay brothers. That seems queer to me!”

Mr. Pawter listened with the amused air of one who was indulging a
child, and after he had been served with his meal, changed into a golf
suit, and, with a walking stick in his hand, strolled out on to the
moor, striking across the gaunt countryside towards a smaller road
which he knew ran parallel with the post-road.

He was a mile from his objective when he saw the waiting car, a small
American machine that was invariably employed to take him to the
Priory. The elderly man at the wheel touched his cap as Pawter came
up. He wore the blue serge suit which was the livery of all the
workers at the Priory, and Pawter knew him by name.

“All well at the Priory?” he asked.

“All well, sir,” said the old man.

“Nobody been ill?”

“No, sir,” said the other in surprise, “not that I know.”

They proceeded for a mile in silence, and then Pawter asked:

“How is the Grand Prior?”

“Very well, sir, so far as I know. We never see much of him. He
doesn’t come through the main gates.”

Pawter nodded. He was the only prior that ever went through the main
gates. There was, in one corner of the wall, a small portal which was
known as the Prior’s Door, and had been used for hundreds of years for
the convenience of the superior of that order which the Proud Sons of
Ragousa had replaced.

“He comes and goes by night, as you know, sir,” said the driver. “As
a matter of fact, all the brethren do but you. I hope there’s going to
be a bit of luck for my lodge this drawing,” he added. “We haven’t
had an argosy come to Plymouth so long as I can remember. Little
prizes, but none of the big ones. And it’s curious that we never get
them at the Priory--none of the lay brothers, I mean.”

“Your number goes in with the rest,” said Pawter good-humouredly.

Every lodge had a mild grievance that the argosies came a little too
infrequently in their direction. The provincial branches were certain
that London got more than its share; London pointed dolefully to the
scarcity of prizes awarded to Metropolitan lodges.

The car dipped into a valley, turned abruptly round a great stone tor,
through another valley, and then on the left, between the secondary
and the main road, Pawter saw the familiar lines of the Priory, squat,
unlovely, so much a part of the moor in colour and cheerlessness that
a stranger might pass it by without knowing that the Priory existed.
The walls were high and grey, overgrown with ivy and other creeping
plants. The great gates, which swung open at their approach, always
reminded him of a prison. But inside he came upon peace.

Pawter got down and followed the silent attendant through a small
doorway and along a stone passage, at the end of which the man opened
an uninviting door that looked more like the door of a cell than of
the handsome suite it was. The open grate was banked high with
flowers; the floor was covered with a thick carpet, and the furnishing
of the apartment was luxurious.

From this room there was an opening, unfurnished with door, into the
bedroom. It was a typical suite of the silent Priors of Ragousa. The
bookshelves which half-covered one stone wall were well-filled.

“Hall is at eight, sir,” said the attendant.

He wore the conventional garb of the Sons of Ragousa, save that his
head was not covered, his hood hanging at his shoulders.

“You will dine?”

“I have dined,” said Pawter. “Is the Prior well?”

“Very well, sir. He has been away, but he came back this morning.”

He opened a cupboard, took out a decanter, a glass and a large siphon
of soda, and placed on the table a big box of cigars.

“You will ring if you require me, sir?” he said, and went out.

Pawter chose a cigar with care, lit it, and, after smoking
thoughtfully for a while, he strolled across to the barred window that
looked out upon a smaller courtyard. Beyond this, through a big
gateway, he saw a flower-grown expanse, with little mounds set at
regular intervals, each surmounted by a black cross.

He was trying to analyse the feeling of uneasiness which clouded his
mind. It was novel; never before had he felt quite the same as he did
to-day. There was something… what was it? Could it be William
Holbrook’s inquisitiveness of the morning? Or was his conscience
pricking him, that he had revealed so much that had never been told
before about the internal economy of the Proud Sons of Ragousa? Or was
it that, stalking in that quiet place was the ghost of Brother John,
stricken down in his prime in the crowded streets of London?

“I think I must be getting old,” he said to himself as he came back
and, pulling up a chair to the table, took from his pocket a number of
papers which he had brought with him.

He had hardly begun their examination when there was a gentle knock at
the door and a lay brother came in, a red-faced, good-looking man,
almost as bald as Pawter.

“They told me you were here,” he said, in that low voice which was
habitual amongst the people of the Priory. “I thought I’d see you and
tell you the news. You know poor Brother John is dead?”

“We only heard to-day, but the Prior has known for some time.”

He was the seneschal of the Priory, a man named Blackwood, whom Pawter
had known for many years as the head of the laymen. The Ragousas paid
their permanent officials well, and Blackwood, who occupied something
of the position of housekeeper to the Priors, found the life so much
to his liking that he, who had come to what he thought would be a
temporary appointment, had held his position for fifteen years. Most
of the laymen had been recruited in exactly the same way. Blackwood
had been an hotel manager, who had fallen on evil times when the Grand
Prior had discovered him. All the gardeners and cooks were chosen from
the lodges after a careful inquiry into their qualifications. These
laymen were the veritable masters of the Priory, since the Priors
themselves had no permanent habitation. Some stayed less than a year
and were replaced by fresh appointments. Nobody except Brother John
had remained since the Priors’ Degree had been founded.

“Who has Brother John’s place?” asked Pawter.

“Brother James, a very quiet and pious man,” was the reply. “You
come, of course, for the drawing?”

Pawter nodded.

“I wonder they haven’t made you a Prior, Blackwood?”

“I prefer my position,” he said promptly. “To live apart, to let no
man see your face, to speak to none, spend one’s time in
contemplation--no, thank you!”

“You’re a mixed lot,” said the irreverent Pawter, pulling at his
cigar, and Blackwood smiled.

“There are a few not as great gentlemen as the others,” he said
diplomatically. “Some of them cannot stand the life, and want to leave
at the end of the first week. But they’re scared of the Grand Prior.
Some would stay for years, and are quite upset when they’re turned out
to make room for newcomers. Do you know, Mr. Pawter, that I haven’t
seen a Prior’s face all the time I’ve been here, except one who
died?”

“What do you do for a doctor, in case of illness?”

“If a man gets ill he’s sent home,” said the other. “The only real
case of illness we’ve had was a year ago, when the Grand Prior was
seized with a heart attack. Unfortunately, the only man here who can
drive a car was ill, and two of the brethren had to go out on to the
road in the hope of stopping a car bound for Newton Abbot. By great
good luck, they managed to hold a car that was carrying a doctor to
Exeter.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A year ago.”

“You don’t happen to know the doctor?”

“No, he was admitted by the Prior’s Postern. At that time the Grand
Prior was very ill indeed, and on the verge of delirium. It was
Brother John who went out to find him. Brother John was beside
himself.”

“A year ago”--Pawter pinched his lower lip--“and you found a doctor,
eh?” He drew a long breath. “That explains a lot--a whole lot.”

The seneschal tugged a watch from under his robe.

“You’ll have to get ready, sir,” he said, opening the cupboard, and
took out a silken gown, as Pawter stripped his coat. “You ought to be
thankful that you don’t have to hide your face either. It must be
stifling on a hot night like this. Now I must go. You have
everything?”

Pawter walked to the door and watched him go down the passage out of
sight, and came back into the room with a new problem to ponder.

It was five minutes to eight o’clock when the summons came. He heard
the shuffle of sandalled feet on the stone flooring of the passage,
and then a peculiar knock.

“Who knocks?” he asked loudly.

“Two Priors of this Proud Order,” came the reply.

“Enter,” he said, and the door opened slowly.

Standing in the opening was a masked and cowled figure, its hands
concealed in the deep openings of its sleeves. Beyond him was another,
similarly attired, and without a word the two men turned and paced
leisurely down the corridor, and Pawter followed. When they reached
the courtyard where he had got out of the car, there was no sign of
any layman. They proceeded along a broad garden path, nodding flowers
to left and right, through an archway, up a short flight of steps, and
along another path, until they came to the carved door of a building.
Here his conductors stood, one on each side, and allowed him to pass.

He was in a small chapel familiar to him. Only the choir was occupied,
and in the space where ordinarily worshippers would have knelt or sat,
was a big barrel with a handle attached to one end, and a large table
piled high with small white, metal-edged discs. His guides passed him,
one walking to the right and one to the left, and sat down at the end
of the choir stalls.

The mellow light of sunset, streaming through the stained-glass
windows, brought a new glory to the banners above the choir, gave a
newer dignity to the violet-clad figure which moved down the chancel
steps towards him.

“Welcome, O Seen Prior!” said a muffled voice behind the cowl. “All
matters being in order, let the illusion of fortune come to whomsoever
chance shall will.”

There was a silver gilt shovel like a sugar scoop on the table, and
with the aid of this Pawter shovelled the discs into the barrel until
every one was inside. Then he clamped tight the lid, and, rolling his
sleeve to his right shoulder, held up his bare arm, his fingers
outstretched. Then, without a word, he spun the barrel, and, when it
stopped, opened a little trap-door in its side, put in his hand and
took out a disc, laying it on the table. Ten times he did this, and
then the Grand Prior pointed to two of the masked figures in the
stalls and they came down to the table, and as one called the numbers
the other wrote them down.

When they had finished, Pawter swept the little discs into the palm of
his hand and dropped them into the barrel. Again the barrel spun,
again he drew forth, one by one, ten numbers, and laid them on the
table. The two men who examined the first had returned to their
stalls, and now the Prior pointed to two others, who moved forward,
called and checked the numbers, and returned to their places.

Five times this happened, and when it was finished, the Grand Prior
spoke.

“The fourth drawing is the true drawing, by order of the Priors.”

Pawter checked the numbers carefully, and as he was doing so, the
Priors rose, a deep voice began the chant of victory, and they filed
out one by one.

He frowned. What did that mean? Never before had the Priors left their
stalls until the names of the winners had been announced.

As if divining his thoughts, the man in purple spoke.

“It is not seemly that names should be given, for who knows what envy
they may excite? And is not envy the very foulest of all human vices?
Come with me, my brother, to the registry.”

Pawter followed, alert, suspicious.

The registry was a small, lofty room, where, behind steel doors, were
the records of the Order. The only light admitted was through a narrow
window placed near the ceiling and heavily barred, and a swinging
kerosene lamp supplied the illumination of the apartment. It seemed to
Pawter that the lamp was turned unusually low.

“Will you sit on the other side of the table, Mr. Pawter?” said the
voice of the masked man courteously.

He turned, opened the safe, and took out, not the books that Pawter
expected, the register of names and numbers. Instead, he opened a thin
blotter and exposed to the astonished eyes of the auditor five
cheques, already filled.

“You will sign these.”

“But, Grand Prior,” protested Pawter, “I have not checked the names
with the numbers. How did you know that those men would win the
argosy?”

“You will sign those cheques--please,” said the voice again.

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Pawter, jumping to his feet.
“What possesses you, Mr. Stone?”

“There is no name here for me but Grand Prior,” he said. “Sign!”

“I’m afraid I cannot.” Pawter threw down the pen and moved away from
the table.

“If you value your life, sign!”

He turned his head: he was looking into the muzzle of an automatic
pistol, and the fire in the eyes that showed through the cowl blazed
balefully.




 CHAPTER XXXVI.
 THE GRAND PRIOR SHOWS HIS HAND

“What does this mean?”

“It means that you are going to sign five cheques,” was the suave
reply. “Or that you will not leave the Priory alive.”

Slowly Pawter took off his robe, dropped it on the ground, and thrust
his hands into his pockets. Bald, middle-aged, a creature of commerce,
he had in him a something which brought a clearer light to his eye and
a more determined thrust to his jaw.

“I’ll sign nothing,” he said. “You are not Leiff Stone!”

Then, before the other realised what he was doing, Pawter had leapt at
the man with the pistol. One hand had gripped the wrist, the other was
clawing at the mask on the face, when something struck him and he went
down in a heap.

When he came to himself, he was sitting in a smaller and even darker
room, on a stone bench. Whatever ventilation there was came through a
small grating which showed no light. His wrists were fastened with
handcuffs, his ankles were strapped, and somebody was holding him in
the angle of the wall.

“Wake up.”

He looked stupidly at the purple cowl.

“You’re not Leiff Stone,” he said drowsily.

“You will be a sensible man and sign the cheques,” was the reply.

The Grand Prior was alone, but the heavy door was ajar, and Pawter saw
the shadow of a second man in the adjoining room.

“We may have to keep you here for a few days, but I swear that you’ll
come to no harm if you’ll do as you’re told.”

“I’ll sign no cheques,” said the other doggedly, “and I warn you
that, if you attempt to forge my name, you will be instantly detected.
The Prior and I agreed upon a secret marking to every cheque that the
bank manager knows. If you’re the Prior, you will know what that is.”

For a second the man was taken aback.

“I know everything,” he said, and then unexpectedly left the room,
slamming the door behind him, leaving his prisoner in darkness.

It must have been two hours before he returned. He brought back with
him a jug of water, poured out a glassful, and the prisoner drank
eagerly.

“Now, Mr. Pawter, you will be a wise man if you will do as I ask. I
know the secret mark--a dot under the vowel of every recipient’s name.
You are mistaken in thinking that I am not Stone. There is a special
reason, which is no business of yours, why I wish to reward these
brethren of the Order for their services. There has been a great deal
of unrest amongst the brethren, complaints that certain lodges have
been favoured at the expense of others. I am merely distributing the
argosies over a wider area.”

“You do not need a gun for that purpose. Anyway, Prior, I would not
have done this thing. You employed me as an auditor for my honesty,
and I will not be a party to any crooked practice that you suggest.
Bring me the discs and the books, and I will sign the cheques.”

Again the purple man went out and came back with ten discs, which he
laid on the bench by the side of Pawter.

“Here they are,” he said. “I will bring you the books----”

“Save yourself the trouble,” said Pawter coldly. “These are not the
discs I drew. I have a pretty good head for figures, and I could not
possibly have made a mistake. I presume that these discs correspond
with the names of the people you wish me to draw the cheques for, and
I flatly refuse.”

“We will try another method,” said the purple man softly. “There is
such a thing as pain. If you were a member of the Twenty-Third Degree,
you would realise that pain, hunger and thirst are three of the most
potent factors in determining human comfort. I will not put you on the
rack, or introduce you to The Maiden, Mr. Pawter. A pair of mundane
curling tongs such as a wench may use to fringe her hair, heated by a
spirit lamp, are quite as painful as any hot iron that might be drawn
from a brazier and applied to your eyes! That makes you quiver, my
friend! Believe me, I shall not hesitate to go to extreme lengths. Now
what do you say?”

“I refuse.”

“Very well.” The voice came almost in a whisper. “You have brought
this upon your own head!”




 CHAPTER XXXVII.
 A TRIP TO DEVON

Betty Carew made a call on the residence of De Fell, the manager,
and that young man was not too busy to see the girl to whom he had
written on the previous night.

“You’ve come to accept that part, have you? Well, you can start
rehearsals----”

She shook her head with a smile.

“I never dreamt I’d be in a position to do it, Mr. De Fell, but I’ve
got to decline your engagement. I am going with my uncle to America.”

“The dickens you are!” said De Fell, swinging round and looking at
the girl admiringly. “Does that mean you’re out of the theatrical
business for good?”

“I don’t know. I hope so in many ways, in others I should be very
sorry.”

“Who is your uncle, by the way?” and, when she told him, he whistled.
“Suffering cats! Why, I introduced him to you! Well, now, isn’t that
fine!”

He had something to say about an old acquaintance of hers.

“You weren’t at La Florette’s great jamboree last night? Well, you
missed nothing except the exhibition of lavish expenditure, for no
particular reason so far as I can discover, since Van Campe and I were
the only theatrical people present. They say that she has been
financed--by the way, what relation is Dr. Laffin to you--uncle?”

“He is not my uncle,” she said shortly.

“Then you ought to be thankful. I can’t understand that bird. Somebody
told me that Laffin was behind this grand display of La Florette’s,
but I can’t believe that. Is he a rich man?”

She shook her head. “He’s very poor.”

She was loth to discuss the doctor at all, and took the earliest
opportunity of bringing the interview to an end. There was another she
would gladly have avoided, but Bullott had insisted upon seeing her
that afternoon, and though he had made the environment for the
appointment as pleasant as possible--he had chosen Mr. Stone’s
flat--she went in some apprehension.

Once again she told him of her dreams, of the chapel, the book upon
her knees, the monk-like figures sitting beneath their banners, and
the purple-robed man who had addressed her.

“That is what I wanted to know,” said Bullott at the finish. “You
don’t remember what happened to the book?”

She shook her head.

“Would you know the place again if you saw it?”

She hesitated.

“Yes, I think I should. Why--do you know where it is? Wasn’t it a
dream after all?”

“You bet it wasn’t!” said Bill Holbrook, an interested audience,
energetically. “Miss Carew, the inspector wants you to go down with us
to-night.”

“Where?” she said in surprise.

“Into Devonshire.”

“But I couldn’t. Why into Devonshire?”

“My dear, I think you’d better go,” said Lambert Stone. “I have heard
enough from these gentlemen to be convinced that there is some danger
to your father.”

“My father!” she gasped. “Whom do you mean?”

“I mean the man in purple.”

She looked at him in astonishment.

“You’re not jesting?”

“No, that was your father. Mr. Bullott has made inquiries and has
discovered that the Grand Priors of Ragousa have their headquarters on
Dartmoor.”

“Oh!” Suddenly she remembered the adventure that had overtaken her
and the doctor nearly two years before. “Now I remember. It was on
Dartmoor that we saw those dreadful masked faces, and the voice--the
voice of the man who stopped us--it was Brother John!”

Incoherently she related the events of that wild night: the rain, the
storm-swept moor, the red lantern in the road that had brought the car
to a standstill, and the long absence of the doctor.

“Yes,” nodded Bullott, “you were near the Priory. Someone must have
been taken ill there, and the doctor went to see him. It was after
that that he got his idea for dressing you up in green and putting you
in a shop window--I’ve got it!” His eyes were blazing with
excitement. “Listen--this is what happened. It must have been Leiff
Stone who was taken ill, and when the doctor saw him he must have
gained his confidence. Your brother is something of a mystic, isn’t
he, sir?”

Lambert nodded.

“Given to strange dreams?”

“Yes, he always had his visions,” said the other quietly.

“Old man Laffin must have heard from him about some dream in which he
saw a Messenger from the Absolute--that is the word--in the form of a
red-haired girl in a green dress. Perhaps Leiff Stone’s dream was that
he would meet this girl sitting in a shop window, with a green jade
vase and a red rose--can’t you imagine what fantastic things he may
have dreamt in his delirium? And Laffin thought it over, saw the
immense opportunity which this knowledge gave to him, and gradually
worked up to the grand climax! Do you remember the advertisement,
Holbrook, the advertisement I showed you--‘Punging the Green Dragon?’
That was Laffin’s signal to some confederate, probably in the Priory;
somebody who informed him of all Mr. Leiff Stone’s movements--he may
have got at one of the laymen. At any rate, he induced the Prior to
come to London, and pass the store where Miss Carew was working. When
Stone had called that part of your work was finished. Laffin had
evidently a rôle assigned to you, something referred to in the
message which you had given to your father. He intended taking you to
the Priory and detaining you in the house for the purpose, and then,
when he failed, carried you off from your lodging. Try hard to
remember, Miss Carew,” he said earnestly, “what did Brother John say
to you when he called at the theatre?”

“He asked me if I was the lady who had been in the shop window,” she
said, “whether I was related to Dr. Laffin.”

“Then Brother John knew, or guessed, and he had come to London to
protect his friend. And because he was seen speaking to you, they
killed him--Laffin or his agent.”

He took a sheet of blue paper from his pocket, read it with some
satisfaction and put it back.

“I’m taking Laffin to-night,” he said.

“On a charge of killing Brother John?” asked Bill.

“No, sir, I am taking him on a charge of wilfully murdering the late
Lord Lowbridge by the administration of poison. We’ve had the body up,
and found enough aconite to kill a regiment of soldiers!

“Don’t you see,” he said, when they had recovered a little from their
surprise, “Laffin was the family doctor of the late Lord Lowbridge.
Clive Lowbridge had been his pupil, and you might suppose that, with
the property in the hands of his friend, it would be an easy matter to
get the money he wanted and to hide the fact that, two years before
Lord Lowbridge died, Laffin had got transferred, by means of a false
deed, a considerable slice of Lord Lowbridge’s property. The present
holder of the title does not know this, but it is nevertheless a fact
that the impoverished condition of his estate is due very considerably
to the systematic forgeries of Laffin. The son of Lowbridge died in
exactly the same manner--it may be the subject of another charge.
Laffin is an expert poisoner, and the sooner we get him the better.”

“He is not at his house?” asked Bill in a hushed voice, for this
revelation of his friend’s prescience almost shocked him.

“No, I have been there. He left very early this morning. I think I
know where he is to be found. Now, Miss Carew, will you come?”

“I think I ought to go--for Clive’s sake,” she said, and Bill
Holbrook was instantly and unaccountably depressed.




 CHAPTER XXXVIII.
 A MAN AND A MAID

The five o’clock west-bound mail carried a saloon in which were
fifteen men and one woman, who did not usually undertake a journey to
the West of England. Bullott was taking no chances. He had been
allowed to select his own posse, and when, at eight o’clock that
night, they reached Newton Abbot, he was confident that, whatever the
search of the Priory might produce, he would not fail through lack of
able assistance.

Four big cars left at intervals for Two Bridges, partly because this
made a convenient halting-place, and partly by reason of Bullott’s
knowledge that Pawter usually spent the night at the hotel when his
duties brought him to the Priory.

The first car carried Betty and her uncle, with Bill Holbrook,
Inspector Bullott, and a detective at the driver’s side.

“I’m beginning to get thrilled,” she said in a low voice, as the car
came down to Buckfastleigh-in-the-Moor, and the severe splendour of
the new Abbey showed for a second in the paling light. “And you are
also, Mr. Holbrook--you’ve spoken hardly a word since we left town.”

“No.” Bill roused himself with an effort. “I’ve got a thinking fit
to-day. When are you leaving?”

“On Saturday,” she said. “I’m looking forward to that trip
tremendously. The _Escorial_ is the biggest ship in the new American
line, isn’t it, Mr. Stone?”

“The biggest and the best,” he said stoutly. “We’re going to show
these Europeans that we can run ships as well as the best
organisations in England or Germany.”

He spoke of the great social halls, of the swimming-pool, the
wonderful suites, the Florentine restaurant and the palm court, and
Bill grew more dismal in inverse ratio to his companion’s enthusiasm.

“Why don’t you come along? I’m making up a party for my camp in the
Adirondacks.”

Bill sighed heavily.

“Get thee behind me, Lambert Stone,” he groaned.

“Why don’t you come, Mr. Holbrook?” asked Betty, to her uncle’s
surprise. “You were one of the first people Mr. Stone suggested, but
I--I thought you wouldn’t like to join us.”

“Who’s going?” asked Bill, and the first name damped any enthusiasm
that was developing. “You’ll enjoy it, anyway,” he said. “We’re
getting near Two Bridges,” with this he abruptly turned the subject.

The car pulled up before the hotel and Bullott went to see Pawter. He
came out very shortly afterwards, and in his voice was a note of
concern.

“Pawter hasn’t returned,” he said. “They say he is usually back by
half-past nine, and it’s past ten now.”

“He isn’t that much behind his time that you need worry,” said Stone.
“What do you intend doing--I mean, what is the object of raiding the
Priory?”

“Primarily to take a good look at the gentlemen who are in control,”
said Bullott. “I wish to satisfy myself that Mr. Leiff Stone is what
he appears to be--the head of a perfectly harmless organisation.”

Lambert Stone was looking at him intently.

“That isn’t your object, Mr. Bullott,” he said quietly, “there is
some other reason. My brother would not be a party to any illegal
practices. Do you think that the Order has got into the hands of
lawless men and that he is there too?”

“I think a good many things. I am scared about more,” he said.

The half-hour that followed afforded two members of the party an
opportunity which one at least desired. Bill had strolled a little way
along the dark road when he heard footsteps behind him, and, turning,
discerned the figure of the girl.

“Mr. Holbrook,” she called, “I want to speak to you. Have I offended
you?”

“Offended me?” said Bill in amazement. “Why, no, Miss Carew.”

“Or is it your natural repugnance to compromise?”

He did not see her smile, but he heard the laughter in her voice.

“You aren’t very friendly, are you? I remember not so long ago, when I
walked a long way to avoid you. I am more shameless now. Are you very
angry with me?”

“Why should I be?”

“Why won’t you come to America? My uncle would have really liked to
ask you; it was I who stopped him writing you an invitation. You see,
Mr. Holbrook,” she said as she walked by his side, “I was rather
scared of you; I couldn’t understand what part you were playing in
that horrible scheme to put me in a shop window, and I told
Clive----”

“Shall we leave Lord Lowbridge out of account?” he said, with
inexplicable exasperation.

“You don’t like Lord Lowbridge?”

“I like him all right,” said Bill. “I’m sorry I was so irritable.”

“Why don’t you like him?” she insisted.

“I don’t know. Does anybody like the perfect man--any other man, I
mean?”

He heard her soft laughter and grinned a little sheepishly.

“You’re jealous!”

The astounding charge took his breath away.

“Jealous?” he stammered. “What do you mean? How can I be jealous?”

“You’re jealous,” she said again, “that is, if you’re human.”

He had no words to answer her.

“I’ve been on the stage--lived in an atmosphere where love and
infatuation and the other pleasant mysteries of life are discussed so
naturally and so persistently that even I can discuss them
without--without embarrassment. A woman loses a great deal when she
becomes sophisticated, but she gains in knowledge. Mr. Holbrook,
you’re falling in love, and you mustn’t!”

Never before in his life had he felt at such a disadvantage, so
incapable of pert rejoinder. She was telling him something that
consciously he had not known.

“Why mustn’t I?” he said. His voice was husky as he went on quickly,
“Of course, I know you’re frantically rich, and you’re in love with
another man, but they’re the merest items, and anyway, there’s nothing
to prevent my loving you--if I want.”

“Except that I’m married,” she said.

He stopped dead.

“To Lowbridge?” he asked, scarcely recognising his own voice.

“No, to Dr. Laffin. I think you ought to know this. I am married in
the sense that I have been through a ceremony before the registrar. I
don’t know why he did it, but--yes, I do.”

“Does Mr. Stone know?”

“No,” she said in a low voice, “I do not wish him to know--yet.”

They were nearing the hotel again when he halted.

“Suppose you weren’t married?” he asked, and it required all his
courage to put the question. “Would that make a whole lot of
difference to--to me, or to Lowbridge?”

“Let us go in,” she said, turning. “I thought I heard the inspector
call.”

But he would not move.

“To whom would this make most difference?”

“To both of you, I think,” she said lightly, and then her arm was in
his. “I shall never marry Clive,” she said.




 CHAPTER XXXIX.
 THE TEST

Pawter looked at the phosphorescent dial of his watch and with some
difficulty returned it to his pocket, for the handcuffs about his
wrists were of a type that he had never seen before. He suspected that
they had been found in the monastery, and remembered the Grand Prior
telling him, many years before, that he had discovered a cell
evidently used to incarcerate monks who had lost their reason. He was
probably in that prison house now.

What would they do with him? Would the purple-veiled Prior carry his
threat into execution? It was more than an hour since the man had
taken his departure, and there had been no sign or sound of him.

There were two doors in the small stone room in which he was held
prisoner, and in spite of his bound ankles he had succeeded in hopping
to both, to find, as he had expected, that they were locked. He had
scarcely put away his watch before he heard the shooting of bolts, the
door opened and the purple man came in, carrying a candle lantern,
which he placed on the floor. By its side he put a flat metal case,
which he opened, and Pawter saw, with some astonishment, that his
captor literally intended to fulfil his threat, for he took out a
diminutive spirit stove and a pair of steel tongs.

He struck a match, and the stove burnt bluely. Then, laying the tongs
on two projecting brackets, he watched the steady flame curl about the
steel.

“It will take a little time before they are hot enough,” said the
voice, “time for you to reflect, my friend.”

He went out of the room and returned with the coat which Pawter had
taken off when he had put on his robe.

“Our good friend Blackwood was curious as to where you had gone.” He
mentioned the fact casually.

“What are you going to do?” There was no tremor in Pawter’s voice
when he put the question. And then:

“Hurt you,” was the calm reply, “hurt you so badly that you will do
as I wish.”

“In other words, you’re going to revert to the practice of the Middle
Ages, eh?” Pawter was calm, almost bland. “It has been a wonder to me
how these ancient folk endured torture, and now I’m going to discover
for myself!”

“That is exactly what will happen,” said the mask. “You have lived a
fairly comfortable life, Mr. Pawter, maintained yourself free from
aches and pains, and I doubt very much whether you can imagine what
will happen when real pain, comes to you.”

“I can imagine a whole lot of things,” said Pawter, watching the blue
flame of the spirit lamp, “but I can’t imagine making myself a party
to your fraud by signing those cheques.”

The Prior lifted the tongs, held them near to his face, and put them
back again in the flames.

“Not hot enough yet,” he said pleasantly. “Pawter, you’re a fool. I
am willing to pay you a very considerable sum for your services, and
to continue that payment every half-year. You would be a rich man in
five years’ time.”

“I’m a rich man now,” said the other easily, “and if I did what you
ask me, my riches would weight me down and crush me.”

At the end of five minutes, during which time neither man spoke, the
Prior lifted the tongs.

“They are hot,” he said, and brought them near to Pawter’s face, but
the bald man did not shrink.

Nearer and nearer, until the heat was intolerable, and yet, with an
unbelievable stoicism, he sat rigid, unmoving.

“Not pleasant, eh? Imagine them held to your eyelids--that makes you
feel bad? Listen.” The spurious amiability left his voice. “There’s
nothing I will not do to make you carry out my wishes. I’ll blind
you--do you understand that? I’ll shut off from you the chief joy of
life--your vision! Am I to be checked at the moment of my success by a
dog of a tradesman?”

His voice rose shrilly, the hands that held the tongs were trembling.

“At the very edge of fortune, shall I hesitate----”

_Rap, rap, rap._

Somebody was knocking at the door. He half turned.

“Who’s there?” he called.

_Rap, rap, rap!_

“Who is it?” The man in purple almost screamed the question.

“Open, in the name of the King!” said a voice on the other side of
the door--the voice of Inspector Bullott!




 CHAPTER XL.
 THE WOMAN WITH THE JUG

The door shook under a heavy blow, and the Prior stood momentarily
paralysed with terror and consternation.

“Open!”

Pawter too had recognised the voice of Inspector Bullott, and he drew
a long sigh. In another second the Prior had lifted the lantern and
blown out the light; there was the rattle of a key in a door, and a
sound of creaking hinges; then followed a thud, as the door closed.

He was escaping through the smaller door, and he had hardly left the
room before Pawter heard the sound of voices outside, the snap of a
lock, and in another instant Bullott had dashed into the room, an
electric torch in his hand.

“Where is he?” he asked.

Pawter nodded towards the small postern.

“Is there a key to this?” cried Bullott sharply.

Blackwood came into the cell, bearing a bunch of keys, his red face
unusually pale. Five minutes were lost before the key was discovered.
Bullott then found himself in a smaller stone lobby. From this led a
door, which when it was opened, he discovered to be the postern gate
through which the Grand Prior was admitted to the building. There was
no sign of the man, nor was a search possible, for it opened on to the
wild moor, now in complete darkness, and it would have required a
battalion to have continued the search.

The inspector returned to the Priory and conducted a close examination
of the priors. He came to the room into which Pawter had been ushered,
with a story of failure.

“The Grand Prior and Brother James have gone,” he said, “and whoever
the Prior may be, he is not Leiff Stone!”

Seeing that a search that night would be wasted labour, Bullott
returned to the room which had been allotted to Pawter. Here he
interrupted the publicity man in the midst of his recital. A further
and more systematic search of the Priory led to no discovery of value,
and at one o’clock in the morning the search party was withdrawn, to
the relief of the ruffled Priors.

“I don’t know what action the Secretary of State will take now that
this matter of the draw has been brought to his notice,” said
Bullott, “but I suggest, Mr. Pawter, that until you learn the wishes
of the members of your Order, you had better take up the duties of the
Chief Prior.”

To his surprise, Pawter offered no objection to adopting this course,
for apparently he had already decided what action he would take.

“I don’t suppose for one moment that our friend will return,” he
said, “but if he does, I can promise you that I will place him
immediately in your hands. As to taking control of the Order, that has
already been provided for. I have a deed signed by Mr. Stone,
authorising me to take charge if anything happened to him.”

“Did you recognise his voice?”

Pawter shook his head.

“No, though I’ll swear it was not Mr. Stone.”

Blackwood, the seneschal, was closely questioned, and added something
to the detective’s knowledge. He remembered the night that Betty had
been brought to the Priory, though he swore that she had not come
through the main gates. The other Priors were unanimous that she had
come there of her own free will, a pardonable error, for she had,
apparently, walked to her chair unassisted; they had not been informed
as to the meaning of the strange scene they had witnessed. All they
knew was that the Grand Prior had addressed them an hour before the
girl was brought in, and had told them that he was receiving a “divine
visitor.” Nor did they know who were the two brethren who had stood
on either side of her when the book was placed upon her knees. As to
the book, that was as much of a mystery to them as it had been to the
girl.

The Grand Prior was in the building the next morning. He seldom
journeyed by day, left as a rule just before midnight, and drove his
own car, which was kept in a small garage that had been built on the
north side of the Priory wall.

Bullott went to inspect this building, and found, as he had expected,
that it was empty. Further, the seneschal could not assist them, for
he seldom saw the Prior himself except on extraordinary occasions, and
he did not know how many days the head of the Order had been at the
Priory before the startling events of that night.

The party drove back the way they had come, and nearing Two Bridges,
Pawter, who accompanied them, remembered the old waiter who had a
cottage on the moor.

“That must be the place,” he said, pointing to the little dwelling,
visible in the light of the motor lamps.

As the car stopped before the door, it opened and Pawter saw the
servant. He was a little tremulous at sight of so many people at such
an hour of the night, but he had a tale to tell of a machine that had
dashed past an hour before.

“A big black car with three men, and going at such a rate that I
thought they’d turn over at the curve. I think they must have had an
accident, because I heard the brakes go on, and a bump.”

Beyond the cottage the road turned abruptly, and here there was a wall
which showed marks of collision.

“It wasn’t serious enough to stop them,” said Bullott after making
his inspection. “Those were our men undoubtedly.”

A police patrol whom they met near Two Bridges had the same story to
tell of a car that was thundering along the road in defiance of all
speed regulations.

“I signalled them to stop, but they took no more notice of me than if
I’d been a fly on the wall,” he said.

“Any number on the car?” asked Bullott hopefully.

“No, sir, they had no back light so far as I could see. They took the
Exeter road.”

“I’ll get on the ’phone to the Exeter police,” said Bullott, after
they had gained admission to the hotel, but in this project he was not
successful. The wires which followed the Exeter road had been cut, and
there was no other telephonic communication.

In point of fact the big black car did not take the risk of being
observed in a fairly populous city where it must go at a slow pace.
Five miles from the suburbs of Exeter, Joshua Laffin leant across to
the driver and bawled in his ear:

“Keep away from Exeter. There’s a by-road to the left that takes you
past Taunton.”

Captain Harvey Hale waved his hand, not taking his eyes from the road
ahead.

At eight o’clock that morning Dr. Laffin arrived at Bath Station,
caught the early train, and was in his home before eleven o’clock.
Detectives watching the house saw him come, and duly reported his
arrival to Bullott, but long before the inspector was on the spot, Mr.
William Holbrook was knocking at the front door, which was opened by
Laffin’s servant.

“The master is busy,” she said.

“I’m busy too,” said Bill, and pushed past her.

Without a word he turned the handle of the study door, threw it open
and walked inside. The room was, as usual, heavily curtained, and the
only light was a candle upon the table. Dr. Laffin was nowhere to be
seen.

“I thought he was there, sir,” said the girl, aghast. “He must be in
his room. I’ll run up.”

She came down in a few minutes with the news that the doctor was not
in the house.

As he stood there, the area door below opened and an elderly woman in
an old mantle, and carrying a big milk jug and a key in her hand, came
out, shuffled down the path and turned towards the station. It was
apparently Laffin’s cook. He saw the two detectives watching on the
opposite side of the road, and knew there was no chance of the man
escaping. Turning to the girl, who was standing aimlessly in the
passage, he asked:

“What time did the doctor come back?”

“About ten o’clock, sir. I told him the police were coming here----”

“You told him that, did you?”

“Oh yes, sir, they quite frightened me. There have been two men
watching this house all the morning and all last night. I got so
nervous that I nearly went home to my mother.”

“But why do that?” said Bill good-humouredly. “Surely the cook is
some sort of protection, isn’t she?”

“Cook, sir?” said the girl in surprise. “We haven’t got a cook. I do
all the cooking there is.”

“But who’s the elderly woman in the kitchen downstairs?”

She shook her head.

“There isn’t any elderly woman, sir. We have a charwoman in once a
week, but this is not her day.”

A sudden suspicion shot through Holbrook’s mind, and he ran out of the
front door, down into the street, and gazed the way the old woman had
gone. It was at that moment that Bullott arrived, and the reporter
told him what he had seen.

“That was Laffin all right,” said Bullott. “He walked into the trap,
and we hadn’t sufficient intelligence to close it on him.”

He called the two watchers and gave them instructions. In ten minutes
all West London was looking for an elderly woman carrying a milk jug
and a key.

Lord Lowbridge heard the news with a grave face.

“Impossible!” he said when they told him that Laffin was wanted for
murder by poisoning. “My uncle died a natural death.”

“Who gave the certificate?” asked Bullott significantly, and Clive
Lowbridge stared.

“I never thought of that. Of course, Dr. Laffin gave the certificate.
But it is too preposterous--what could he hope to gain?”

“He could hope to make you a very rich man and trust that your
generosity would reward him. He hoped also to hide the fact, which
would have been discovered by Lord Lowbridge, and certainly should
have been discovered by his lawyers, that a large parcel of land had
been transferred to Laffin by means of forged deeds. In other words,
my lord, Dr. Laffin is partly responsible for the poverty of your
estate!”

Clive’s jaw dropped.

“It is incredible,” he muttered. And then, aloud, “I have never cared
very much for Laffin, although I thought I owed him something, and
probably your view as to what would have happened if I had inherited a
large fortune is nearly accurate. As a matter of fact, I had decided
in my mind to give the doctor a very substantial sum. He was always in
debt, and generally in the worst kind of other trouble; it would have
been a real pleasure to me to have relieved that state of affairs for
him. And my cousin, too, you say?” He whistled. “It sounds like a
page of an exciting novel, but I must believe you. Laffin is not like
other men; his virtues and vices are equally bizarre.”

“Did he ever introduce you to the Proud Sons of Ragousa?”

“No, he never succeeded in shooting me into that crowd,” he said,
“but it was not for want of trying. But that sort of mummery does not
appeal to me, and my luck is so diabolical that I could never hope to
have gained one of their big prizes. They give some prizes, don’t
they? In fact”--there was a note of unhappiness in his laughter--“the
biggest prize in all the world, which most men would have thought was
easiest to gain, has so far escaped me--and it isn’t money.”




 CHAPTER XLI.
 FLORETTE COMPLAINS

Bill was in his room shaving late in the morning, when Bullott
rushed in.

“I’ve got a bit of news that will interest you, Holbrook,” he said.
“There were three people in that car that left Exeter; I’ve been able
to trace them. The driver was a tall man, who will be difficult to
identify because his face was covered with goggles, but he is, I
believe, Captain Harvey Hale, a man who has been in prison, and a
pretty bad character. The second man was, of course, Joshua Laffin.”

“And the third?” asked Bill.

“I’ll give you three guesses.”

“Not Toby Marsh?” said Holbrook.

“Toby Marsh and no other,” said Bullott. “I’ve been to his lodgings
to make absolutely sure, but he hasn’t been there since last night. He
was riding with Laffin, and the two were seen talking very
confidentially by a policeman as they came into Bath, where the car
was garaged at the Hudson Hotel. This confirms the story of the
Taunton police and the waiter at Two Bridges, who say there were two
men beside the driver.”

“Toby Marsh!” Holbrook was bewildered.

“If I have failed it is my own fault,” said Bullott despondently.
“Those gay writers in the newspapers said I was a fool to take this
little thief into my confidence--and they are more than justified. Now
that it is too late, I have discovered that Laffin and Marsh were old
acquaintances. The only conviction that the police have against Marsh
is for breaking and entering Laffin’s place in Bath. I’ve been looking
at the records of the case, and the story is a simple one. Laffin was,
as usual, in a state of poverty, but had some valuable books and old
Egyptian manuscripts, which he had insured heavily. The story Marsh
told was that he was an acquaintance of Laffin’s, and had been
employed by him to commit the burglary with the object of getting the
insurance, though the Egyptian papyri were subsequently proved to be
practically valueless. Naturally, nobody believed the burglar against
a respected local doctor, and Toby was sent down, swearing he would
get even with the man who double-crossed him.”

“But why should Marsh have given us all this information about
Laffin?”

“Partly for revenge,” said Bullott, “partly, and in the latter stages
of the case, to pull the wool over our eyes, or, to put it vulgarly,
to kid us along. No, we’ve been sold. There’s no sense in squealing.
Are you going with the Stones to America?” he asked, changing the
subject abruptly.

Bill shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said, without heartiness. “In fact, I know I
shan’t. You seem to forget that I’m on this story of Laffin----”

“I should go if I were you”--Bullott interrupted him--“because I
am!”

“You?”

“Yes, I’ve seen the Chief this morning, and he has decided that I
ought to join the party. Do you know what relation Betty Carew is to
the doctor?”

Bill was silent.

“That young lady is going to be the candle to the moth. She is the one
assistant Laffin can depend upon, unwilling though she may be; for by
the law she cannot give evidence against her husband. He married her
to silence her; there is an excellent reason--two excellent reasons,
in fact--why he should follow her to America.”

“They may be excellent,” said Bill, “but they don’t appear that way
to me. Besides, I’ve got another anchor in London. Pips has taken on
the reconstruction of the Proud Sons of Ragousa. Maybe there’ll be no
Proud Sons to reconstruct after the Secretary of State has taken
action. If it isn’t reconstructed it will be wound up, and Pips will
be busy. I cannot let his business go to ruin.”

“Nevertheless, you will be well advised to come along with me,” said
Bullott.

“Where is Leiff Stone?” asked Bill.

“God knows,” was the grave reply. “I haven’t dared to tell Miss Stone
all that I suspect.”

Bill Holbrook did not see him for the rest of the day; he himself was
fully occupied with putting into writing the story of the raid on the
Priory, and in consultation with Pawter. That worthy man had lost no
time in seeing the high officers of state, and had exposed to them all
that he knew of the workings of the Order.

“They have no objection to our carrying on, but they insist that the
Priors shall not be masked, and that the annual distribution of
argosies must be determined by merit and not by chance.”

“That sounds as though most of the money will come to me,” said Bill.

For some reason the depression which had laid on his mind like a cloud
during the past few weeks had vanished, and he could trace his relief
and cheerfulness to the talk he had had with the girl on the Dartmoor
road.

Toward the evening, when he was working at the newspaper office, the
City Editor brought him news that the body of Tinker Lane had been
found, and later came a prosaic reminder of his own responsibility in
the matter, in the shape of a policeman bearing an order to appear
before the coroner’s inquest.

Every tape message that reached the office concerning Laffin was
brought to him, for now the news that the man was wanted for murder
was common property. A reward had been offered for his arrest; every
station and port was being watched; but Laffin had disappeared, and
though a taxicab driver had been found who had picked up the old woman
with the milk jug and the key and had set her down near a City
hospital, he was not able to contribute any helpful clue.

It was eleven o’clock at night, and he had handed in his last copy and
risen stiffly from his desk, when the bell of the inter-telephone rang
and the hall porter told him that there was a lady to see him. His
heart jumped.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Miss Florette, sir.”

“Show her up.”

To say that La Florette was in a state of agitation is mildly to
describe the half-hysterical, half-furious woman who was shown into
his little office. Florette spent a considerable time every day in
hiding the traces by which ruthless nature scores the passage of the
years, but to-night she had made no attempt to doll up, Bill noticed.
Her face was haggard, and the dark lines about her eyes revealed the
state of mind into which Laffin’s perfidy had thrown her.

“Has that devil been found?” she asked immediately she came into the
room. “Oh, Mr. Holbrook, isn’t it dreadful! All I’ve had from him was
five hundred, though he promised faithfully he’d send me a cheque the
next morning! I haven’t seen the colour of his money, and the
tradesmen’s bills are coming in; it will cost me over two thousand to
settle! And it was Van Campe’s fault; he said I’d get publicity out of
it, and I haven’t got so much as a line! Whatever am I to do?”

“If you’ll sit down quietly and tell me all about it,” said Bill,
“maybe I can help you--as far as publicity goes.”

“Not that kind of publicity,” she said shrilly. “I don’t want anybody
to know that it wasn’t my house, or that somebody else was paying the
bills! It would ruin me professionally, Mr. Holbrook. I’ve got to
think of my career. And Charles says that he won’t pay a penny. I’m
ruined, absolutely ruined!”

Bill looked at the ten thousand dollar wristlet she wore, was dazzled
by the scintillations of a great, pear-shaped diamond that hung on her
breast, and even observed that the hands that gesticulated in despair
sent forth strange and beautiful flashes of colour, and in the face of
this evidence of “ruin” was not as sympathetic as he might have been.

“It’s not my house at all,” she said; “of course you knew that?
Laffin took it because he wanted to find out something about Sir
Richard Paxton, who is one of the heads of the Treasury. I don’t
understand very much about it, because Stock Exchange business makes
my head ache. But it was all about the war that he wanted to know. It
seems that we owe America a lot of money.”

“Have you only just discovered that?” asked Bill with gentle irony.

“How was I to know?” she asked impatiently. “Anyway, we _do_ owe
America a lot of money, and we have to pay them every year or
half-year--I forget which. And he wanted me to find out when the next
interest--that was the word, ‘interest’--was to be paid. He said that
the British Government had been buying dollars, and he wanted to make
sure whether the money was going to America in paper currency or in
gold, and I had an awful job to find out, Mr. Holbrook. You’ve no idea
how mean these Government people are. And Sir Richard likes me very
much indeed--in fact, he’s perfectly dippy about me.”

Bill was listening with all ears now. The mystery of the house in
Portman Place was less of a mystery to him.

“I suppose it was because I had this grand house that he was more open
and frank with me. It’s curious what snobs people are--but they are,
Mr. Holbrook! Anyway, he told me that the money was being sent in
paper currency--that’s the term, isn’t it? paper currency?”

“That’s the term,” said Bill, with an assumption of carelessness.
“And when is it to be shipped?”

“On the twenty-ninth of July--that’s next week--by the----” she
frowned in an effort of memory. “I can never keep ships in my head--it
was a curious name----”

“_Escorial_?” asked Bill, his heart beating a little faster.

“That’s it--the _Escorial_. Fifty million dollars! Isn’t it wicked to
send all that money to America? They’ll probably spend it on cinemas,
which are ruining our profession. Fifty million dollars!” She
literally groaned. “And I’ve got twenty tradesmen waiting on my
doorstep, and heaven knows where the money’s coming from! I’ve never
been so deceived in my life, Mr. Holbrook. He ought to get twenty
years for what he did for me. Is there any chance of finding him?”
she asked.

“The police are trying very hard to find him.”

“Has he any money? I mean, would it be possible, if he is captured,
for him to give me a cheque?” she whimpered. “I’m sure the police
would think all the better of him if he paid his obligations. I don’t
know which way to turn, and mother’s so upset because her paying guest
has gone away, and the police have been to the house looking for him.
Really, Mr. Holbrook, I think I shall go mad unless something
happens.”

“One moment,” said Bill. “Did you tell Dr. Laffin all that Sir
Richard Paxton told you--I mean, about the money going on the
_Escorial_?”

She nodded vigorously.

“Of course I did; I told him on Sunday night, just as soon as Sir
Richard told me. There wasn’t anything wrong in that, was there?” she
asked in sudden alarm.

“I don’t know what view the police will take of it,” said Bill
gravely, and La Florette went white.

“Has he been doing something very wrong?”

“I don’t think he could do anything much worse than murder, and you
know they want him for that,” said Bill, a little irritably.

“Yes, I know, but has he been stealing money?” asked Florette, to
whom the first letter of sin was “$.”

He got rid of her as soon as he possibly could, promising to give her
the first news of Laffin’s capture, and to inform her at the earliest
possible date as to the doctor’s financial position. He himself left
the office a few minutes after La Florette, and, since his mind needed
the sedative of exercise, he decided to walk home.

He strolled leisurely up Fleet Street, along the Strand, still bright
and populated, for the great hotels had not yet discharged their
supper parties; crossed Trafalgar Square, and, acting upon the whim of
the moment, turned under the Admiralty Arch and walked along the Mall.
At this hour of the night, even the courting couples had disappeared,
and beyond the cars and cabs that take a short cut to Victoria, there
was little to be seen.

He saw no pedestrians until he overtook a man who was walking slowly
towards Buckingham Palace. Something in his gait seemed familiar, and
yet he would not have troubled to look into the face, but just as he
was abreast of the solitary walker the man gave a short, dry cough,
and Bill spun round. For a second only he was in doubt: the sallow
face and the short-clipped, black beard were wholly unfamiliar to him.
The horn-rimmed spectacles that surmounted the thin nose were equally
strange. He hesitated, facing the man.

“What do you want?” said the voice, and that was his mistake.

In an instant Bill Holbrook had gripped him.

“I want you, Dr. Laffin!” he said.

His free hand tore away the beard that hid the cruel mouth. The doctor
winced with the pain of it; then without a word, he struck out. His
blow caught Holbrook unprepared, and he stumbled backwards, but before
Laffin could run, Bill had reached out and caught his coat. For a
second they struggled desperately, and then over the man’s shoulder he
saw a policeman approaching from the direction of St. James’s.

Laffin’s strength was extraordinary, he fought like a cat, striking
out wildly, and wherever his blow fell Bill grunted with the shock of
it. And then, as the policeman came up, occurred a maddening accident
which was to have such remarkable consequences.

Laffin’s fist had struck Bill full in the mouth. Savagely he hit back;
the doctor dodged, and the blow, going across his shoulder, caught the
policeman under the jaw and sent him sprawling. In a second he was on
his feet, had torn the men apart, flinging the doctor against the
railings of the Park and holding Bill in a grip from which there was
no escape.

“Take that man, quick! He’s Laffin!” gasped the reporter.

“I’ll take you,” said the officer savagely, and swung him round.
“Come a little walk with me!”

“Take him, take him!” yelled Bill, as he saw Laffin, turning on his
heel, run like the wind. “He’s wanted for murder!”




 CHAPTER XLII.
 AN ADDITIONAL PASSENGER

The grip on collar and arm did not relax.

“I’ll teach you to hit me!” breathed the officer.

“It was an accident, you fool!” stormed Bill, making the situation
worse. “Take that man--he’s Laffin, I tell you. They’ll have the coat
off your back if you let him escape!”

“Never mind about Laffin; I’ve heard that fairy tale before,” said
the policeman, as he walked briskly, Bill’s arm in his, past the
sentry at St. James’s Palace.

There was nothing to do but to submit, and Bill Holbrook found himself
thrust into a steel pen, answering the conventional questions of the
station sergeant. When they had been put:

“I want you to communicate with Inspector Bullott,” said Bill, giving
the address. “He’s a personal friend of mine. I tell you, the man that
this officer allowed to escape was Joshua Laffin, who is wanted on a
charge of murder.”

The sergeant looked across his spectacles.

“Is that so?” he said, with polite sarcasm. “And is there anybody
else you’d like to communicate with? The King or anybody?”

“Do you mind telephoning my newspaper?” said Bill, who knew that it
would be a waste of time trying to match his wits with the officer.
“Perhaps you’ll not be so comic to-morrow morning.”

A claim of association with a newspaper was more effective than his
statement that he was a friend of Bullott. But, by extraordinary bad
luck, there was no member of the night staff who knew him. The City
Editor had gone home, and the men on duty were strangers to him; and
when he had at last persuaded the sergeant to communicate with
Bullott, it was to discover that that officer also was not at home.

He spent the night in a police cell, and at ten o’clock the next
morning was brought before the magistrate charged with disorderly
conduct and striking Police Constable Higgins in the execution of his
duty. It was so ludicrous, so amazingly grotesque an experience, that
he did not know whether to laugh or cry when the magistrate inflicted
a small fine, and he almost ran out of the court.

A taxi took him to his lodgings, and he found the inspector’s
housekeeper scrubbing the front passage.

“Mr. Bullott, sir? Didn’t you know that he was leaving?”

“Leaving--for where?”

“For America, sir, he went this morning.”

“Is it Saturday?” said Bill in horror.

“Of course it is, sir.” She looked at him suspiciously; she had never
before seen this untidy young man under the influence of drink. “Mr.
Bullott was very worried about your not coming home last night; he
wanted to see you and left a note in your room.”

“That’s all right, I was locked up,” said Bill recklessly, and dashed
up the stairs to find the letter.

It was a very short note, but significant.


 “If it is humanly possible for you to join the _Escorial_, do so.
 Something very queer is happening.”


That was all--it was a message without introduction, date or
signature, scribbled hastily in pencil. Did Bullott know about the
Treasury official’s indiscretion? Did he realise that the _Escorial_
was carrying fifty million dollars in paper currency to New York?
Bill’s head was in a whirl. He sat down and tried hard to think
consecutively. The thought uppermost in his mind was that some
extraordinary danger threatened Betty Carew.

He looked at his watch; it was eleven o’clock. On Saturday there would
be nobody in the office, but he knew where to find the editor, and in
a few minutes was on the ’phone to him, telling him what he had learnt
on the previous night. The editor made a quick decision.

“I’ll fix the police,” he said. “Go along to the American Consul,
explain the position to him, and get your passport visaed. I’ll have
reservations made for you on the ship by wireless. What time does the
_Escorial_ sail?”

“At midday; it will leave in an hour,” said Bill.

“I’ll hire a car to take you to Southampton,” came the instructions,
“and will wire the seaplane company to have a machine waiting to carry
you to Cherbourg. Fly over to France and pick up the _Escorial_;
she’ll not leave Cherbourg before six o’clock to-night. Have you got
any money?”

“No, sir,” said Bill promptly.

“Very good, I’ll send my butler along with the car and the cash; he’ll
meet you outside the Consulate.”

The Consulate was closing when he arrived. The Consul, indeed, had
already taken his departure, and it seemed impossible that the
all-important visa could be obtained. Nevertheless, visa or no visa,
Bill Holbrook was determined that he would make the trip. The most
they could do would be to turn him back from New York, and he thought
he had influences sufficiently strong in that city to find his way
into his native land without making acquaintance with Ellis Island.
Happily, this unsatisfactory course was not necessary, for, after a
telephone consultation with his chief, the Assistant Consul was able
to stamp his passport, and by the time this business was through, and
Bill had emerged on to Bedford Square, he found the editor’s servant
waiting with a roll of money. And at the sidewalk was the car that the
editor had hired.

At half-past three that afternoon he arrived at Southampton, to learn
that the _Escorial_ had sailed promptly at midday, and would arrive at
Cherbourg at six o’clock that night. It took him a longer time than he
supposed to find the headquarters of the seaplane company, and it was
nearly five before, with a thundering roar of her tractors, the little
plane rose steeply from the water, and, mounting higher and higher,
headed for Cherbourg. Midway the engine began to misfire, and the
pilot was forced to bring her down on to the water, which fortunately
was smooth. Another half-hour was wasted whilst he corrected the error
which had led to the forced landing.

Bill was in that agony of fear and anger which is only experienced by
those who find themselves held up when they are late for an
appointment. But at last the repairs were completed and the seaplane
buzzed up again, and as his watch pointed to half-past seven they
sighted the French coast and presently the huge bulk of the
_Escorial_.

Even as the ship came into sight, he saw a white feather of steam
shoot out from her siren, and knew that she was signalling her
departure. Down swept the plane, coming to rest within a fathom of the
high hull, just as the gangway was being pulled up from the tender.

Bill signalled frantically, and, at the imminent risk of his life,
walked the somewhat precarious foothold of the seaplane’s float, and,
barely managing to reach the bulwarks of the tender, swung himself
aboard. The gangway was up, but he was evidently expected, for a pilot
ladder was dropped immediately, and, clinging desperately to the rope,
he reached one of the lower decks and was hauled on board.

It was not until then that he realised that he had left his bag on the
seaplane, but somehow this did not worry him greatly. Within a few
yards of him was, as he knew, Betty Carew, and that was compensation
enough.




 CHAPTER XLIII.
 ON BOARD THE “ESCORIAL”

“You cut it rather fine.”

Bill looked round and gripped the hand of Bullott.

“The purser told me he’d had your wire, but we’d given you up. Our
stay at Cherbourg was shorter than usual, and you were lucky to make
it.”

They went down to the purser’s office together, and Bill received the
steamship ticket, which had been ordered by wireless, and was shown to
a small cabin on one of the upper decks.

In greater detail than was usual with him, he told the story of La
Florette’s visit and his subsequent misadventure.

“You’re sure it was Laffin?”

“Certain,” said Bill emphatically. “I knew him even with his beard
on. Once that was off, he made no disguise of his identity. If that
blundering idiot of a policeman hadn’t pinched me, I’d have had him
under lock and key.”

Bullott looked thoughtfully at the new passenger.

“I don’t think they’ll make any attempt to get the money--which is on
board, by the way--until they get to New York. At any rate, the
captain and the ship’s officers know that there is some possibility of
the strong-room being forced, and they’ve put a couple of armed guards
before the purser’s safe.”

“Is it in an inaccessible place?” asked Bill.

“No, as a matter of fact, it is behind the purser’s cabin, and the
only possible way in which it can be forced is through that apartment.
This, of course, is not the strong-room in which the money would be
stored if it were in bullion: there’s a bigger vault down below. But
as the payment is made in paper, the purser’s own deposit is
considered to be the best possible place for it. Day and night there
is somebody on duty; the purser himself sleeps in a berth which covers
the door; and in addition, there are two armed quartermasters on
duty.”

“There are no suspicious characters amongst the passengers?”

“It is too early to say that,” said Bullott. “With eleven hundred
fashionable and semi-fashionable folk in the first and second class,
it is quite possible that we shall find a few who wouldn’t be
qualified if we were choosing archbishops. There are, for instance,
eight known cardsharpers working the line, and probably as many more
who are unknown. But the purser and the ship’s police are certain that
these men are not in any way dangerous. They specialise in their own
graft and have no time for sidelines. Do you know the ship? She’s
wonderful!”

“A newspaper man knows everything,” said Bill.




 CHAPTER XLIV.
 BETTY’S FEAR

Later, he was to find that Mr. Bullott’s enthusiastic description
was by no means far-fetched. The United States liner _Escorial_ was by
far the most luxurious vessel that ever rode the Atlantic. Never had
the easy description of “floating palace” been so truthful in its
application. From the gymnasium on the upper deck to the pillared
swimming pool on H deck, she was the last word in magnificent
accommodation. Ten elevators carried her passengers from deck to deck:
her huge social hall, with its priceless tapestries and its elegant
furnishings, was without a peer. Bill paced the long promenade deck,
his eyes seeking for Betty Stone, and marvelled at the hugeness of
this leviathan.

The spacious deck was crowded with loungers, for the dinner bugle had
not yet sounded. He searched the rows upon rows of deck chairs that
stood in the deep recesses, without, however, catching so much as a
glimpse of the girl, and when he joined Bullott in the beautiful
smoke-room, he mentioned the failure of his search.

“Miss Stone is unpacking: I just saw her maid. There’s Lowbridge.” He
pointed to a padded corner of the room where Clive Lowbridge sat at
his ease, a cigarette between his lips, his eyes on the carved
ceiling. Their eyes met, and with a lift of his eyebrows and a smile
Clive sprang up and came towards him.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Holbrook. When did you come on board?
I didn’t see you at Southampton. You weren’t by any chance the crazy
man who arrived by aeroplane at Cherbourg?”

“I was that lunatic,” said Bill.

“I was watching you disembark and wondering whether you would be
drowned. Well, what is the news from London? It seems ten years since
we left. Have you heard anything of Laffin?”

“I saw him last night,” said Bill grimly, “and in consequence spent
the night in a cold, cold prison cell.”

Clive’s face was grave, and when Bill had finished his short
narrative:

“I find it difficult to believe that Laffin is such a blackguard,” he
said. “In many ways I’m glad to be out of it all--it doesn’t bear
thinking about. It seems that the only person left with any faith in
the doctor is Benson.”

“Benson? Oh, you mean your butler?”

“He is my valet here,” said Lowbridge with a smile. “Yes, I brought
him; he was unexpectedly loth to leave me--in fact, offered to pay his
own fare. In many ways I am glad, because I am not the best of
sailors.”

“Benson believes in him?”

“Benson is a man filled with admirable sentiments,” he said. “It is
his faith that no man is as black as he is painted. My own view is
that Benson never defended a man less worthy than the doctor.”

He glanced curiously at Bill’s costume. As usual, the reporter was
somewhat oddly arrayed, and, conscious of his scrutiny, Bill laughed.

“You’ve got to get used to this kit, Lord Lowbridge,” he said,
“because I’ve brought no clothes, and unless I can dig something up
from the barber, I will be a disgrace to your party--if I were a
member of your party,” he added hastily.

Clive was amused.

“I’m afraid I cannot help you in the matter of clothes: you and I are
not sized alike,” he said, and Bill looked enviously at the fine
figure of Lord Lowbridge, and felt that twinge of jealousy he had
experienced before.

Bullott, most surprisingly, came to his rescue in the matter of
clothes. He had brought a dress suit, which he did not intend wearing,
so he said, and Bill found that the suit fitted him perfectly.
Moreover, Bullott had a larger supply of linen than one man could use.

“I shall be just eating around,” said Bullott, when Bill protested
against robbing him of his clothes. “And anyway, regular meals
interfere with my digestion.”

Whilst he was dressing, a steward brought a message from Mr. Stone,
asking Holbrook if he would join their party at dinner, and he was all
the more grateful that he was presentable when he came down the stairs
into the wonderful white hall, that looked like anything but the
dining-saloon of a ship, and was greeted by the smiling eyes of the
most beautiful girl in the world. Bill had never seen her before in an
evening gown, and at sight of her loveliness caught his breath.

“How wonderful that you have come after all, Mr. Holbrook!” she said.
“And please, you’re not going to talk of Dr. Laffin or of any of the
horrors from which we’ve escaped! I want to talk about this dream
ship.”

She chatted throughout dinner about the people who were on board.
There was a returning ambassador, three great literary geniuses, a
star from Hollywood who scintillated so brightly that she could not
come into dinner until nine o’clock at night, when her sparkling
splendours might be the better observed.

“And there are twenty-five millionaires,” she said impressively. “Mr.
Stone counted them on the passenger list. Think of it, Mr.
Holbrook--twenty-five! Doesn’t it make your mouth water?”

“I’ve yet to meet the millionaire that ever impressed me,” said Bill.
“They’re homely folk, and I guess they hate being what they are.”

He looked round the great saloon; from every table there came the
shimmer and glint of jewels, for the sea was calm and all chairs in
the restaurant were occupied. Even the chronic neurasthenics, who feel
ill at the sight of a ship, had plucked up courage to appear on the
first night at sea.

To the girl it was a scene of enchantment, outside and beyond anything
in her experience; and even Bill was so impressed that he began to
regret that, in taking away Bullott’s clothes, he had also deprived
him of this vision of loveliness. He might have been in a great
Parisian restaurant; there was no motion, not so much as a tremor,
save that his practised ear heard, above the talk and the soft strains
of the orchestra that were playing in a gallery at the far end of the
saloon, the distant whirr of the turbines that were driving them
through the smooth blue sea.

When dinner was over he fell in naturally at Betty’s side, and went up
with her in the little elevator to the top deck. As they walked out
into the cool night air, a point of white light splashed for a moment
on the horizon and was gone.

“That is St. Catherine’s,” said Bill, “about the only light you’ll
pick up from now until Fire Island.”

She was looking at him with a woman’s critical eye.

“You are better dressed than I’ve ever seen you.”

“And for an excellent reason,” replied Bill cheerfully. “I am wearing
another man’s suit! I came on board with nothing but what I stood
upright in. But have no fear,” he warned her solemnly, raising his
hand, “the barber has been true to type and has found me some shirts
and other garments which I will not particularise. I shall not
disgrace you--that is, if Bullott is content to go what he calls
‘eating around.’”

“I haven’t seen him since I came on board,” said the girl, with
sudden seriousness. “Why is he going to America?”

“Why shouldn’t he?” parried Bill. “The man that hasn’t seen America
isn’t alive.”

“But why is he coming on this particular ship? I thought he was so
busy with”--she hesitated--“with this horrible murder. Was that story
you told at dinner true?” she asked suddenly. “I mean the story about
your fighting with a man in the Park and being arrested?”

“Perfectly true.”

“Who was the man?”

“An acquaintance of mine.” Bill tried to pass the matter over.

“But it must have been somebody very hateful to you,” she insisted.
“I can’t imagine you fighting for the sake of fighting. Was it the
doctor?”

He nodded.

“Thank God!”

“Why do you say that?” he asked in surprise.

“Because, if he is in London, he isn’t here!”

“Ever since I’ve been on this ship,” she said at last, “I’ve had a
fearful sense of being--what is the word?--shadowed! I don’t know why,
but all the time I am looking round, expecting to find him at my
elbow.”

“Here, on this ship?”

She nodded.

“You don’t know Laffin as I know him,” she said. “You’ll never plumb
the deeps of his malignity, of his daring. I still believe he is on
this ship.”

“Well, I can reassure you on that point,” he said. “Bullott watched
every passenger come on board, and the doctor was not one.”

She shook her head doubtingly.

“You do not know the doctor,” she said, and at that moment Clive
Lowbridge joined them and the conversation became general.

As soon as he could bring himself to leave her, Bill went down in
search of Bullott, and found him in his cabin, studying the passenger
list.

“Well?” he asked, as Bill came in.

“Miss Carew thinks that the doctor is on board?”

Bullott put down the list, took off his glasses and replaced them
carefully in his waistcoat pocket.

“Maybe she’s right,” he said calmly.

“Here, on this ship? He wouldn’t be such a fool!”

“I don’t know.” Bullott’s attitude exactly reflected that of the
girl. “It looks foolish, doesn’t it? On the other hand, you may be
safer on this ship than in London. I am really advancing what will
seem to you to be a wild theory. For a man who has been dealing in
theories for weeks, and who has exchanged the safe haven of the Record
Department for the kind of existence that I’m dragging out now,
theories are almost as tangible as facts.”

He ran his fingers through his scanty hair and sighed.

“It was a bad day for me when I took up real police work, Holbrook,”
he said sadly, “I’m a failure--at least I’m a failure if----”

“If what?” asked Bill, when he paused.

“If I don’t find old man Laffin on board this ship.”

Bill sat down on the settee and stared at his companion.

“Do you seriously mean that Laffin is here?”

“He may not be here now--but he will get here. How? I’m not even
guessing. I’ve got less idea how he’ll get off.”

“I hope he comes,” said Bill grimly. “I paid seven and sixpence for
punching a policeman’s jaw: I guess I can stand a few extra thousand
dollars for strangling Mr. Blooming Laffin.”

Mr. Stone’s party were in the café when he found them, and in that
sparkling atmosphere all thought of the doctor and his devilry was
dissipated. Looking up at the clock when the girl rose, Bill saw, to
his surprise, that it was eleven.

Before he went to bed he took a stroll up and down the deck with
Bullott, and in the main the conversation was confined to America and
its institutions. As eight bells was striking, he went down the broad
companionway to his cabin, turned on the light and began to undress,
trying hard to believe that twenty-four hours ago he had shared a
small cell with a drunken cabman.

Getting into bed, he took up a book and read for a quarter of an hour,
without recognising a single word on the printed page, for his
thoughts were in a queer confusion, made up of Laffin and Betty Carew,
of police cells and dark priories and cowled monks.

He turned out the light and lay for a long time in the darkness, and
must have gone to sleep on his back, for he woke gasping, and sat up
suddenly in his berth. There was a squeak which was distinguishable
from the creak of the ship--the squeak of a door handle turning.

Before he had retired for the night he had placed a small electric
torch within reach of his hand. He stretched out and gripped it, and,
as the squeak was repeated, flashed a light on the door.

It was open, and the light focussed upon a yellow, malignant face--the
face of Dr. Joshua Laffin!




 CHAPTER XLV.
 “SIR JOHN AND LADY WILFORD”

In a second Bill was out of bed. The little alleyway was empty, and
when he reached the longer corridor there was nobody in sight. He came
back to his room, turned on the light and took observations.
Immediately facing his own door was another. Should he knock?

At that moment he heard somebody in the corridor, and ran out, to find
the night steward.

“Who lives in that cabin?” he asked.

“Sir John and Lady Wilford,” said the steward, and Bill experienced a
heartfelt sense of thankfulness that he had not disturbed that
aristocratic couple.

“Did you see any man running along the corridor as you came down?”

“No, sir,” replied the steward, and then: “Has anybody tried to get
into your cabin?”

“Somebody opened the door.”

The steward walked down and examined the catch.

“Maybe you didn’t close it, sir.” There was something in his tone
that suggested that he thought Bill had been dreaming.

He got into his old suit and went in search of Bullott. Bullott’s
cabin was empty; the bed had not been slept in. A water-bottle and a
glass of water stood on the table by his bed; his overcoat was hanging
on a hook, as was also his hat. Bill made his way on to the promenade
deck, where barefooted deck hands were washing down.

The quartermaster in charge answered in the negative.

“No, sir, I haven’t seen Mr. Bullott. Not that I should know him if I
saw him, but the fact is, I haven’t seen any passenger. Maybe he’s up
on the boat deck?”

The skies were growing grey, and the morning air was cold and keen,
when Bill Holbrook mounted the ladder to the upper deck. There was no
sign of Bullott. Not hesitating, Bill invaded that holy of holies, the
bridge, and was promptly, if courteously, ordered down by the officer
of the watch.

“I’ve not seen any passengers,” said that official. “He is probably
around somewhere; passengers get in queer places. Won’t you look for
him again, and then come and, if necessary, I’ll report it to the
captain.”

Bill returned to Bullott’s cabin, but he had not come back. He woke
Stone and told him the news.

“Bullott disappeared? Impossible! He’ll turn up.”

But though the captain was aroused, and the ship searched from stem to
stern, there was no sign or news of the missing inspector. Bill went
down to breakfast with a heavy heart, and the girl, who had heard from
her uncle what had occurred in the night, seemed as much concerned. He
had begged Lambert Stone to say nothing of the doctor’s presence on
the ship, and apparently Mr. Stone had been discreet in this respect,
for she did not associate Laffin with the disappearance.

“What can have happened?” she said. “Could he have fallen
overboard?”

“Quite impossible, according to the captain,” said Bill. “I don’t
know what to think.”

“He will be found,” she suggested encouragingly.

“Perhaps he is making inquiries in the steerage?”

Bill shook his head.

“He has not been seen in the steerage, which was the first place the
captain sent the third officer to search.”

After breakfast he had news which was disturbing and ominous. It came
from the ship’s doctor, who met him at the head of the gangway.

“I wish you’d come along with me, Mr. Holbrook,” said the medical
officer. “You’re a friend of Mr. Bullott’s, aren’t you?”

“Yes, a very great friend,” said Bill quickly. “Have you found him?”

“No, we haven’t found him, only--come along here.”

He opened the door of Bullott’s cabin, and at first Bill saw nothing
unusual, until the doctor pointed. On the floor under his feet was the
shape of a cat, stiffly extended in death.

“This cat belongs to the steward--or rather, it belongs to the
stewards’ mess,” said the doctor. “It sometimes followed its
favourite master, and apparently followed Gibbon, who is Mr. Bullott’s
bedroom steward, when he came up to tidy the cabin. The cat got on to
the bed and drank from that water.” He pointed to the glass of water
that was on the bedside table, which seemed as full as it had been
when Bill had seen it the night before. In the daylight, however, he
noticed a bluish tinge to the liquid. “This unfortunate animal took
two sips, and that is the result.”

“Poisoned?” asked Bill.

The doctor nodded.

“I don’t know what poison it is, but it is a pretty virulent one,” he
said. “I have smelt it for cyanide, but it is something much more
powerful.”

At that moment his own steward brought a bottle, and into this he
carefully poured the contents of the glass.

“I can make a rough analysis, but I doubt whether I shall be able to
detect the agent used until we get to New York,” he said. “Mr.
Bullott had no suicidal tendencies?”

“None whatever,” said Bill emphatically; “he was the healthiest and
sanest man I have met. If there is poison in that glass, and
undoubtedly there is, then it was introduced by somebody who wished to
do him a mischief. Why was the water put there, anyway?”

The steward volunteered the information that Bullott had asked him to
pour out a glass of water before he left for the night, and to place
an apple in readiness on a plate, as he was an early riser. The apple
was gone.

“He may have eaten that last night,” said Bill, “but if he did, he
took it out of the cabin.”

Holbrook opened the inspector’s trunk and made a brief examination,
without discovering any clue to the man’s disappearance.

“The thing is so peculiar that I think it ought to be reported by
wireless to the police of New York and London.”

Bill had had a consultation with Lambert Stone, and together they went
to the captain and told him of the presence of Dr. Laffin.

“He is not on the ship’s list at all,” said the captain
incredulously, and then: “Are you sure you were not dreaming, Mr.
Holbrook?”

“I’m quite sure about that,” said Bill.

“This other business about Bullott is rather worrying. He is a
Scotland Yard officer--I knew all about him before he came on
board--and he is the last man I should have thought it would have been
necessary to protect. My officers, who have searched the ship, say
that there is no sign of him, and I am afraid we must return him as
having fallen overboard.”

“Or having been thrown overboard,” said Lambert Stone emphatically.
“The doctor has told you about the water in the cabin, and the
poisoned cat?”

“Yes, I don’t like it at all. I’ll be glad when we’re past Sandy
Hook.”

Suddenly, as if he had remembered something, he went into the chart
house and presently called them in.

“There was one curious event happened in the night. I see the chief
officer’s logged it. A steam ketch obstructed the fairway--you
probably heard our siren go in the night. We just missed her by a
matter of feet, but she swung in and kept abreast of us, in fact, so
confoundedly close that the chief officer had to yell to the skipper
to haul off, or he’d report him.”

“Is it possible that a man could have got from the deck of the
_Escorial_ to the deck of the ketch without mishap?”

“Quite possible,” said the captain; “that is a fact that we noted.
She went under our stern eventually, but kept up so well with the ship
that it would have been possible for an agile man to transfer from one
boat to the other.”

Bullott was unknown to the passengers, and his disappearance
occasioned no remark. There was, of course, a possibility that he, for
some extraordinary reason, had, in his secret way, arranged to be
trans-shipped in the English Channel, but if that were so, there was
no reason why he should not have notified the captain of the
_Escorial_ that that was his intention. In this possibility, however,
was a grain of comfort.

“I am going to think that he did get off,” said the girl resolutely,
when she was told. “I refuse to be worried on this trip. Everything is
so gorgeous that it is wicked to be unhappy.”

For Bill’s part, he was glad that Betty Carew (he still thought of her
as Carew) took this course. But in his own mind he had doubts as to
whether the ketch supplied a solution to the mystery.

“She must have been a fast traveller to keep up with the _Escorial_,”
suggested Lowbridge when he heard this theory propounded.

“Not necessarily,” was Bill’s reply. “The ship had previously struck
a bank of fog and was running at half-speed.”

The girl’s philosophical attitude was one to be imitated; this Bill
realised before the Sunday was through. He tried to put Bullott’s
disappearance from his mind, tried to forget even the sinister
possibility of Dr. Laffin’s being on board, though he knew in his
heart that with the coming of night there was a danger of this man’s
reappearance.

Betty Stone and her uncle occupied suite H. on D. deck, and his first
move that day was to locate this exactly. In the course of the day he
had reason to go to the purser’s office, and was again reminded of the
absence of Bullott when he saw the burly figure of a sailor sitting
with his back to the door of the safe, a large Navy revolver strapped
to his side.

“Your friend has not turned up, Mr. Holbrook?”

“No, I don’t think we shall see him again this trip,” said Bill.

The purser made a little face.

“We don’t like these disappearances at sea; they have to be reported,
and some ships get a bad name in consequence. I know one of the
Transatlantic boats that has got so bad a reputation for suicides that
they can never get their full complement of passengers, except in the
tourist season.”

Bill saw that the suite on D. deck would be a fairly easy place to
guard. It was the cabin nearest to the broad landing of the
companionway, and there were two entrances, which could be observed by
anybody who sat on one of the settees in which the landing abounded.
The suite comprised three single cabins, a sitting-room and a
bathroom. Lowbridge was housed on the same deck, but two “blocks”
away.

Without saying a word to anybody, he decided upon his course of
action. That afternoon, when tea was served on the decks, he was
missing, and Lowbridge, who went down to call him, returned with the
report that he was fast asleep. It is not a difficult matter to
slumber in the afternoon on a ship; the real task is to keep awake;
and though, when Bill was roused at seven o’clock for dinner, he was
feeling livery and irritable, he knew that sleeping was an act of
wisdom in a man who expected to be awake all night.

Betty rallied him when he came down to dinner, but Stone, with an
uncanny instinct, guessed why he had spent that beautiful afternoon in
his cabin.

“Thinking of sitting up all night, Holbrook?” he asked, when they
were smoking a cigar together on the deck after dinner.

“Yes, I am,” said Bill.

“Do you think there’s any danger to the girl?”

“I’m pretty certain there is danger to somebody,” said Bill, “and
I’ve a particular desire that it should not be to her.”

“I’ve told her to lock both her cabin doors, and I don’t suppose
she’ll be disturbed, but if there is any trouble you’ll call me? I
shouldn’t like to be far away if Laffin started anything.”

Before taking up his vigil that night, Bill went out of his cabin, had
a cold bath and came back to his cabin to dress. He found his steward
putting his bed ready for the night.

“We’ve had a wireless from New York, sir--I don’t know whether it will
affect you. I was in the chief steward’s office when it came, and
you’ll be the first to get one of these--the other passengers get
theirs in the morning.”

He put a slip of typewritten paper in Bill’s hand.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s a notification to all passengers.”

Bill read the paper. It was headed:


                        “Extension of Sullivan Act

 “The following cablegram has been received from the District Attorney
 of New York City. The Sullivan Act, prohibiting the carrying of
 concealed arms, has been amended as follows: No member of a crew or
 passenger of any ship shall enter New York Harbour having in his
 possession firearms of any description whatsoever. Passengers in
 possession of arms of any description must hand them to the purser or
 to some other officer nominated by the captain of the ship
 immediately. The question of issuing licences for these arms will be
 considered on the arrival of the ship at New York.”


Beneath was a note from the purser:


 “It is important that all ladies and gentlemen in possession of
 firearms should hand them into my office by midday on Monday. Failure
 to carry out these instructions will be visited with the severest
 penalty, and the purser earnestly advises every passenger to comply
 with the wishes of the District Attorney.”


“What is the Sullivan Act?”

The Sullivan Act Bill knew; the amendment was not a remarkable
phenomenon.

“It doesn’t affect me,” he said, “for I’m not carrying anything more
deadly than a Marmoosa cigar.”

He finished dressing and went to his post of observation. The late
stewards eyed him curiously; one reported his presence to the purser,
and that gentleman came up with the tactful suggestion that he should
go to bed.

“I’m sitting here for the remainder of the night. If there’s any law
against it, or if I’m breaking any ship’s regulations, why, you can
bring me before the captain in the morning,” said Bill. “Otherwise,
this is my idea of comfort, with the cool sea breezes blowing through
the portholes--I’ve paid for ozone and I’m getting it!”

“Don’t you get it by day, Mr. Holbrook?” said the purser
good-humouredly.

“There are too many people using it in the daytime,” said Bill, and
the purser wisely left him alone.

The night wore on, and there was no sign of the doctor. Though he had
slept through the afternoon, his head began to nod towards dawn, and
it required something of an effort to keep himself awake, until the
arrival of the early stewards relieved him of any need for watching.

Before turning in he walked the empty deck, and, having swallowed a
hot cup of coffee, which, he admitted, was a mean preparation for
slumber, he went down into his cabin, intending to sleep. That
intention, however, was never carried into effect, for on his pillow
he found a letter. It was addressed in pencil and he knew it instantly
to be in Bullott’s handwriting. With a hand that shook he tore it
open, took out a plain sheet of paper, and read:


 “Don’t worry about me. I _have_ got a good constitution.”


There was no signature, but it was Bullott’s writing.




 CHAPTER XLVI.
 THE BLUE BOTTLE

What did he mean? The mystery of his disappearance was more
intensified than ever.

His first act was to carry the note to the captain’s cabin. That
officer was awake and was standing at the door of his handsome
quarters in pyjamas and slippers, a big pipe clenched between his
teeth. He took the letter from Bill’s hand and read it.

“I’m very much relieved,” he said, “but I wish your Scotland Yard men
would choose some other place for their disappearing tricks than my
ship!”

“Not _my_ Scotland Yard men,” corrected Bill.

When he took the news to Betty, which he did as soon as she was up on
deck, she was undisguisedly delighted.

“I only now realise how much I’ve worried about poor Mr. Bullott,”
she said. “But where is he, Billy?”

Now, if there was one word in the language which Bill Holbrook hated
worse than any other, it was Billy. To him it meant goats and tin cans
and French railway tickets, but now there flashed upon him the
realisation that that despised word was one of the sweetest in the
English language, and, but for the girl’s obvious embarrassment, he
would have mentioned his conversion.

Looking past her, he saw Clive Lowbridge reclining in a deck chair,
his hands clasped together under his chin, his grave eyes fixed upon
them, and his conscience smote him--but not very hard.

Later, Bill thought it was typical of the young man that he should
come so straight to a question which others might have gone about with
greater circumspection. It happened after lunch (how definitely are
shipboard days divided by the meal hours!) and he was in the library,
changing a book for Betty, when Clive lounged lazily across to him,
dropped his hand on his shoulder.

“Come and have a drink,” he said, “a soft drink,” he added
unnecessarily, and when they were seated and the steward had taken the
order: “Holbrook, you are very keen on Miss Stone, aren’t you?”

Bill flushed. Even then he did not know whether it was not sacrilege
to admit his affection.

“I like her very much,” he said awkwardly. “I don’t know
whether----”

“You’re keen on her, and she’s keen on you. I hope so, at any rate.
I’ll tell you something--” he bit off the end of a cigar and lit it
before he continued--“you are going to get a prize which I should
consider the highest any man could take from the hands of fortune.”

“_I’m_ going to get a prize! Why, Lord Lowbridge, I think you’re going
rather fast, aren’t you? There is no question about Miss
Carew--Stone--being fond of me. She likes me, I hope, but that is
all.”

The grave eyes were surveying him steadily.

“It is a hateful thing to say, but I hope you’re right. She’s
wonderful--you don’t know how wonderful! I’ve known her so many years
longer than you. I knew her when she was a little girl, so high! And
if things are as I--am afraid, then indeed you are a lucky man.”

Bill looked round guiltily, as though expecting to find the girl at
his elbow, ready to deny with every manifestation of anger that she
could have so far forgotten what was due to her beauty, her grace and
all the holy femininity of her (femininity being particularly holy to
Bill at that moment) that she had any thought of him except as she
perhaps might think of the steward or some other insignificant person.

“I guess I can’t even listen to a provisional congratulation,” he
said, laughing. “Has this discovery about Laffin made any difference
to your position, Lord Lowbridge? I mean, the transference of
properties which he effected by his forgeries?”

Lowbridge shook his head.

“I knew I hadn’t got them,” he said tersely. “That they were stolen
from me by friend Laffin doesn’t make the case any worse than if they
had been gambled from me by my poor uncle. Even now I cannot believe
that he was poisoned. Bullott must have made a colossal blunder.”

“I hardly think so,” said Bill quietly; “Bullott isn’t that kind.”

Clive Lowbridge shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know what kind he is,” he said shortly. “I confess I’m not
very much impressed by this theatrical disappearance of his.”

For the life of him Bill could not defend his friend, for Bullott’s
action had struck him in very much the same way as Clive Lowbridge was
now describing.

“Have you handed in your gun?” asked Lowbridge with a smile. “I have
an antiquated revolver, which is now in the purser’s care. It is
surprising the number of pistols that were on board; almost everybody
seems to have come on the ship prepared to repel invaders!”

Bill explained that he had not been troubled by the order. The purser
had shown him his new armoury in glee that morning. Row after row of
automatics, revolvers and strange German pistols which had come to
him. Each had a label with the owner’s name and contemplated address
in the United States.

He slept that Monday afternoon, and awoke to find that the weather had
changed. Heavy rain was falling, and a moderate sea was running,
without greatly affecting the comfort of the _Escorial’s_ passengers.

He went down to dinner with a lighter heart than he had gone on the
previous night. If, somewhere on the ship, was Dr. Laffin, somewhere
else was the mysterious Bullott, watching and waiting.

When he went below that night to change, his steward waylaid him.

“I’m not much of a detective myself,” said the man, a little
self-consciously, “but I’m what you might describe as an observer,
sir; and I want to ask you whether you took out the stopper of your
water-bottle before you went down to dinner?”

The water-bottles in the cabins were held in a bracket and protected
from dust by a small wooden stopper attached to a chain which was
fastened to the washstand.

“No, I’m sure I didn’t,” said Bill.

“And _I’m_ sure you didn’t,” said the steward. “Before I left your
cabin to-night and put everything tidy, I distinctly remember putting
in the stopper. When I came back late to-night, the stopper was out.”

“I haven’t been to the cabin between dinner and now,” Bill assured
him, and went back with him to view the mysterious carafe.

Undoubtedly the cork was out. Bill lifted the bottle to the light. He
had a quality, which is well known to oculists, the gift of colour
distinction. To most people, white and something which is nearly white
are indistinguishable. To Bill the difference was very distinct. As he
held the bottle to the light, he saw that it was no longer colourless.
There was the faintest blue tint to it--so faint that the steward
failed to see it, and practically suggested that Bill was imagining
things.

“Take that to the doctor as it is. I don’t suppose you’ve got a rat on
board, but if there is anything living that you can try this dope on,
do so.”

It was the colour he had seen in the glass of water from which the cat
had drunk.




 CHAPTER XLVII.
 AN ATTACK IN THE NIGHT

The doctor was in his surgery when the bottle was brought in, and
Bill told him of his suspicions.

“We needn’t experiment on anything living,” said the officer, as he
poured a little of the water into a test tube. “I pretty well know the
contents of the glass in Bullott’s cabin.”

He named a drug which was unknown to Holbrook.

“And I hope it will remain unknown to the world,” said the doctor.
“It is aconitine, one of the swiftest and deadliest poisons known. The
tiniest dose, the fraction of a grain, causes death in a few hours. In
fact, it is so powerful and deadly a drug that no safe dose is given
in the British Pharmacopœia, while the nearest step that has been
taken to mark its value as a poisoning agent is to name the dose that
can be given with safety as the two-hundredth part of a grain.”

He lifted up the bottle.

“Yes, that’s sugar,” he pointed to a filmy substance at the bottom.
“Aconitine can only be given when it is triturated with some gritty
powder.”

Bill waited while he made the rough test.

“Aconitine,” said the doctor briefly, as he put the bubbling test
tube into a stand. “Now, who on earth is distributing that poison?”

“Is it difficult to come by?”

“It would be humanly impossible for you to get as much as a grain from
any chemist. In fact, few chemists stock it--in proof of which I have
none on board this ship, though this is the best-equipped ocean-going
surgery I’ve ever seen.”

The steward had been dismissed after the doctor had taken the test in
hand, and was waiting hopefully in the alleyway for news of the
experiment and for that praise which he had every reason to think was
his due. Bill compromised by slipping him a couple of bills as he
passed, refusing to satisfy his curiosity.

“I’ll take it kindly if you’ll keep an eye on my cabin and see who
goes in and comes out,” he said. “There’ll be fifty dollars for you
at the end of the voyage, and another hundred if you catch the man who
doped the water.”

He had only slept very fitfully that afternoon, and realised, after he
had taken up his post on the landing that it would require all his
resolution to remain awake until the early hours of the morning. In
his watch of the night before he had learned a few things which he did
not know; he had made friends with one of the stewards who were on
duty all night, with the consequence that he was served at intervals
with strong, almost nauseatingly strong coffee, and this kept him
alert until he heard four bells strike and corrected his watch.

Whether the bells had some somniferous effect, or whether the mere
movement to examine his watch had set in motion those toxins which
produce slumber, no sooner had the last vibration of the bell droned
beyond his limit of hearing, than he found himself nodding. Twice he
woke with a start, under the impression that somebody was coming down
the stairs from the upper deck. He looked up and could have sworn he
saw a head suddenly withdrawn from the rail of the upper landing.
Should he go up and see for himself? If he did, he would be deserting
his post.

The port side doorway was open. D. deck corresponded with a lower
promenade deck, and he would have loved to have gone out and freshened
himself with the cold winds of the morning. But he had set himself a
task from which he could not deviate, and stolidly he sat, his eyes
glued to the door of Betty Carew’s state-room.

He heard a slight movement above and, looking up quickly, this time
saw a face. A wild-looking brute of a man, with unkempt hair; a face
which had not touched razor for weeks was glaring down at him, the
hands clasping the polished rails were big and grimy. Even from where
he stood, Bill could see the broken nails.

For a second they looked eye to eye, and then the man’s head vanished.
Bill was on his feet and one foot on the stair when he was recalled to
his self-imposed duty by the sound of a tapping noise. It seemed to
come from Betty’s cabin. He crept along and listened; the noise was
not repeated for a while, and then:

_Tap, tap!_

It was farther along, near to Stone’s door.

He tried the handle; it was locked. Then he rapped on the panel; there
was no answer.

“Are you all right, Mr. Stone?” he called.

He heard the sound of a crash inside the cabin, and a voice crying:

“Help!”

Bracing himself against the bulwarks, he put up his foot and kicked at
the lock, but the door had been obviously bolted on the inside. And
now hands were clawing at the panel. He heard the slow movement of a
bolt being drawn, and as he pushed open the door, Stone fell into his
arms. His face was covered with blood, his silk pyjama jacket was
clawed into rags.

“For God’s sake what has happened?” asked Bill.

“I don’t know,” said the other dully. “See if Betty is all right.”

Bill turned on the lights and ran into the private saloon. On the
opposite side was the door which opened into Betty’s room, and this
was unlocked. He flung open the door and she sat up in bed in alarm.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, her hand at her throat. “Oh, is it
you, Billy? What is wrong?”

“Will you come in to Mr. Stone?”

She stopped only to pull on a dressing-gown and was with him almost as
soon as he had reached the wounded man. Stone was lying on his bed,
recovering his breath.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “No, I’m not hurt very badly.
I wakened with somebody’s hands at my throat. They were jerking me
down into the pillow, and I think I should have died if someone hadn’t
interrupted--I suppose it was you?”

“Who attacked you?”

“I don’t know. There seemed to be two of them, but perhaps it was only
one. I can’t tell you; the cabin was in darkness.”

“That is the way they came,” Bill pointed to the porthole, larger
than was to be found in most cabins. It was wide open and swinging.

He searched the floor, and presently uttered an exclamation.
Underneath the bed was a short sheath-knife, the handle well worn, the
edge stained red with newly shed blood.

There was a roughly-scrawled monogram on the handle, evidently cut by
an amateur who had wearied of his work before it was completed. Bill
carried the knife to the light and examined the markings.

“There is an ‘H’ here, and half of another ‘H.’ Who is H.H.?”

“Nobody I know,” said Stone, shaking his head. “I thought you were
being a little romantic when you decided to sit up all night,
Holbrook. In future you’ll sleep in the spare cabin; I’ll have a bed
made for you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Betty, wide-eyed. “‘Romantic to sit up’?
Have you been sitting up at night, Mr. Holbrook?”

“I’ve been just loafing around,” he said.

“He’s been sitting up on the landing outside, because he thought there
was some danger to you from Laffin. There is no sense in pretending
that he isn’t on board.”

“Dr. Laffin here!” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. “I knew
it, I knew it!”

“Holbrook saw him the first night out, and he’s been keeping
observation on the cabin ever since.”

“That is why you slept in the afternoon, of course?” She dropped her
cool hand on Bill’s. “You’re a dear!”

Had Bill suddenly found himself invested with the Congressional Medal
and the Victoria Cross, he could not have experienced a more poignant
emotion.

“You are a dear,” she nodded, “and I never dreamt--does Clive know?”

“No, I didn’t tell Clive,” said Stone. “It was at Holbrook’s
suggestion. He thought that Clive would wish to share his watch.”

“And I wanted all the kudos myself,” said Bill. “I’m strong for
kudos. It is the only word of Greek I know.”

The steward, who had come at last to the repeated ringing of the bell,
went in search of the doctor, and by the time the medico came, Betty
was dressed.

“I’m going on the deck. Will you come with me?”

Bill was almost used to the aspect of the dawn, but to Betty the first
loveliness of daybreak came with a magic spell.

“The deck chairs are not put out,” he warned her, when she was
looking around for somewhere to sit.

He found a deck chair, opened it and spread his overcoat upon it, but
she stopped him.

“I want to know something,” she said, “and you’ve got to tell me the
truth, Billy--you don’t mind my calling you Billy? I feel I know you
ever so well, and I can’t understand why I didn’t call you Billy from
the first.”

“You didn’t want to call me Billy at first,” said Holbrook grimly. “I
don’t know what variety of language a lady uses when she tries to
describe somebody very objectionable, but I guess you wished to call
me that!”

“I’m calling you Billy now. Where is the doctor?”

“I haven’t the least idea. I’m certain that he is somewhere around.”

“Does the captain know that he’s on the ship?”

“The captain has been told, yes.”

“The ship has been searched?”

“Yes--from keel to--whatever they search it to, I can’t think of the
word,” said Bill. “Nauticalisms were never my specialty.”

She bit her lip thoughtfully and sat for a long time.

“I knew the doctor would be here. He is going to America, of course?”

“I think so.”

“I told Clive he would come, but Clive wouldn’t believe it. But
perhaps he knew?”

“He knew, but I don’t think he wanted to tell you. You were the victim
of a very small and very innocent conspiracy of silence.”

“I knew. He could not be on the same ship or in the same house and I
wouldn’t know.”

It was only by the clasp of her hands one in the other that he
realised the intensity of her horror and hatred of the man she called
husband.

“I have lived all my life under his shadow,” she said. “He has been
an oppression to every joy, a cloud to every ray of sunlight that has
made my path a little more pleasant. To escape him I have toured
almost every town in England, playing in the worst kind of musical
comedies, enduring you’ll never guess how many insults, living in
lodgings that I don’t want to think about. They were hateful, but I
preferred them to the house in Camden Road. Why is he on the ship?”

“You have already suggested that he’s going to America.”

She shook her head.

“It isn’t that. Whatever happens, will happen on board the _Escorial_.
The climax is coming here”--she pointed to the deck. “When do we
reach New York?”

“On Friday?”

“Three more days,” she said in despair, “almost four! Mr. Billy
Holbrook”--she laid her hand on his--“it was wonderful of you to
guard me. Will you go on doing it?”

He nodded, finding a difficulty in speaking.

“Your uncle suggested I should use the spare room in your suite,” he
said, when he had recovered his voice.

“I don’t want you to do that; I don’t want anybody to sleep; I don’t
think I shall sleep either. Why have all the passengers been asked to
hand their revolvers to the purser?”

“It is a new American law,” he said in surprise. “Our people are
always jumping in quick with new laws. I suppose there’s been an
epidemic of hold-ups.…”

“Billy,” she said quietly, “there is no such law.”

“But the purser had a wireless----”

“I don’t care what the purser has had, there is no such law compelling
passengers to surrender their revolvers. If there was a wireless, it
was a fake, and its object is to disarm the men on the ship.”




 CHAPTER XLVIII.
 A RADIO FROM NEW YORK

He stared at her open-mouthed, and once she had voiced her
suspicions, their feasibility was obvious.

“Come up on to the boat deck.” He gripped her arm, and together they
ran up the companionway. Halfway along the deck, at a place just
behind the fourth funnel, was a little cabin. Billy had already
explored this part of the ship very thoroughly, and, opening the door,
he ushered her into an interior dazzlingly lit with thermionic valve
lamps. The spectacled young man who frowned at this rude intrusion
grinned when he recognised Billy.

“I want to get this radio off right away,” said Bill, as he sat down
and began to scribble. “This is to the District Attorney, New York.
‘Have you sent any instructions to purser of _Escorial_ ordering that
all pistols on board shall be deposited in purser’s office under pain
of imprisonment and fine? This is very urgent. Have reason to suspect
hold-up on _Escorial_. Radio me immediately. William Holbrook, staff
reporter, _Dispatch Herald_.’”

He looked at his watch; it was barely three.

“Please God the District Attorney keeps late hours. It is just after
midnight in New York,” he said.

They went down to the cabin, where the doctor had put on the last
bandage and was on the point of departure.

“This is a matter that must be reported to the captain,” he said. “I
take a very serious view of these attempts, first by poison and now by
knife, to murder the members of your party.”

“You don’t take half as serious a view as I take,” said Bill grimly.

The officer of the watch, to whom the circumstances had been reported,
came off duty at four and Bill had a long and earnest talk with him.

“It was easy to get into the cabin,” he said. “Mr. Stone’s suite is
parallel with the lower promenade deck. The glass has been cut and the
porthole was open that way. You’ve heard no more of your friend
Bullott?”

“No. But he is on the ship somewhere.”

“In which case,” said the officer, “he must be no bigger than a flea,
for we can’t do any more in the way of searching this ship unless we
have the paint washed!”

“Maybe you’ll find him under that,” laughed Bill.

He could only marvel, as the days progressed, how perfectly a ship’s
company keeps a secret. Not one of the thousands that travelled on
that great vessel knew how near they had been to tragedy, or guessed
the startling events that had occurred whilst they slept.

“It is uncanny,” agreed Betty. She was stretched on her deck chair in
the hour before lunch. Clad in white from her chin to the tips of her
dainty feet, she held one young man entranced. “I can almost believe
that I’ve been dreaming myself. A woman has just told me that she
never as a rule travels by this line because they use preservatives in
the milk! She has brought her own milk this voyage, and her only worry
is whether she has laid down a sufficient supply to last out to New
York!”

Bill said nothing. He was wondering whether these complacent
passengers, to whom ocean travel was a scarcely noticeable experience,
would have a shock before the stem of the vessel ploughed the Hudson
River.

“Another one told me that she never liked travelling in July because
it is too late for icebergs. She says that she loves icebergs because
they thrill her,” said Clive.

A steward came up at that moment, searching the passengers’ faces,
and, coming to Bill, caught his eye, and hurried towards him.

“A radio for you, sir.”

Bill Holbrook carried the message into the shelter of the social hall
and read:


 “No such order has been issued by my department. Sullivan Act applies
 within the frontiers of the United States.”


It was signed by the District Attorney. Bill read the message again.
What should he do? The first step was to interview the purser. He
found that gentleman in his own cabin, very busy with the
classification of those very weapons with which the message was
concerned.

“Read this,” said Bill. “It is a reply to my wire to the District
Attorney, asking him whether he had issued any order to the effect
that passengers are not allowed to be in possession of pistols during
the voyage.”

The purser, a stout, clean-shaven man, with the plump face which is
peculiar to pursers, read the message and frowned.

“I can’t understand that,” he said. “There is no doubt we had a radio
from the District Attorney.”

“It was a fake,” said Bill, “and I’m telling you something, Mr.
Purser. It was faked by people who have a direct interest in disarming
the passengers of this ship.”

The purser’s jaw dropped, and then he laughed.

“Rubbish!” he said. “You’re trying to get a story out of the ship,
Holbrook. That won’t do at all.”

“How do you account for this message?” asked Bill stubbornly.

The purser read it again.

“It certainly is strange,” he said thoughtfully, “but naturally I
can’t act upon a private message. I had better see the captain.”

There was on the table, almost at Bill’s hand, a long Browning pistol,
and tied to the barrel was a small brown carton of shells. Bill looked
at it thoughtfully.

“I’ll see the captain right away, Holbrook,” said the purser. “You
just wait here until I return.”

Bill strolled out of the cabin. The purser’s office was empty. He saw
that the position of the officer’s bed practically covered one door,
the chair in which sat the armed quartermaster effectively protected
the other.

“The purser is well guarded,” he said to himself.

There was a certain reminiscent ring about the words, and he repeated
them. The purser’s guard? What guard had he heard about, or talked
about, in connection with ships? And then it came to him suddenly.
“Second engine-room guard!” Tinker Lane, the betrayer of the
Twenty-Third Degree of the Proud Sons of Ragousa, had talked about an
engine-room guard! That was a matter which needed thinking out. He got
back to the purser’s cabin a little in advance of the officer himself.

“I’ve seen the captain,” said the purser. “He is sending another
radio to New York, but in any case he thinks it is just as well if we
keep these pistols until we reach port--what do passengers want guns
for, anyway?” he demanded. “The captain thinks that, so long as we’ve
got arms in the ship’s store, there’s no reason to worry about your
hold-up suggestion.”

“Where is the ship’s store?”

“Back of the chart-room,” said the purser. “We’ve got enough rifles
and revolvers to run a war!”

“I see,” said Bill. “You may be sorry, Mr. Purser--darned
sorry--before this trip is through, that you didn’t take my advice.”

And then he strolled out to the deck, and did not tell the girl the
contents of the radio message until they were alone.

“They’re so very satisfied that all things are for the best in the
best of possible ships that I don’t think it is possible we shall
shake their faith. The thing is to leave them to it.”

She shivered.

“It is quite a horrible idea--I mean that there are no arms on the
ship except those in a store which may be rushed at any moment!” she
said, and he could only agree.

Going down to lunch, they joined the little group that stood before
the bulletin board at the head of the companionway. It was covered
with sheets of typewritten news that had been received during the
night. There was the usual story of a Pittsburg heiress who was
divorcing her husband, the inevitable rail accident in France, a
speech by the Chancellor of the Exchequer--the news was English, and
would remain English till the morrow, when Cape Cod would colour the
bulletins with tales of chorus-girl-millionaire marriages, risings in
Mexico and fluctuations in the price of cotton. One message interested
Bill and he stayed behind to read it.

“Spanish police report the disappearance from Bilboa, under suspicious
circumstances, of oil-tanker _Thomas Inland_. During night, when
captain and officers were ashore, vessel put out to sea without
authority and has not been sighted since. The Spanish gunboat _Alfonso
XIII_ is searching for the ship, but the weather in the bay is
foggy.”

He was going down to ponder this matter, when a man from the purser’s
department pinned up two supplementary messages, and one of these was
headed:


                        “The Missing Ship”

 “No further news has been heard of the oil-tanker. It is believed that
 some English sailors who have been living at Bilboa are responsible,
 and that the man who organised the theft was a Captain Harvey Hale,
 who is being sought for by the English police.”


“Harvey Hale”--H.H.! Bill gasped as the full understanding of those
initials on the knife came to him. Was Harvey Hale on board the ship?
If he were, what connection was there in this adventure of Laffin’s,
with the stolen tanker at Bilboa? The letter “H” was not an uncommon
initial; there might be a dozen people on board who could lay claim to
it. But the coincidence was very striking.

Smooth as was the sea, there was just the hint of a swell, and this
had been sufficient to send Clive Lowbridge to his cabin.

“Clive thinks that his coffee was tampered with this morning,” said
Betty. They were alone at the table, for Lambert Stone was too shaken
to appear that day.

“I expect we shall all be hypochondriacs, or imitating the Sultan of
Turkey, who has his food tasted by an official poison-proof varlet
before he eats anything, before we reach New York,” said Bill.

She was very serious and a thought pale. He wondered whether she
shared Clive Lowbridge’s objection to the slight roll of the big
vessel. But when he asked her tactfully if she would like to cut out
two courses and go on to the deck, she declined.

“You can cut out the course, if you want. But it is more comfortable
here. Besides, I want to talk--I always want to talk when I meet
you,” she added, a little ruefully. “Billy, I’m going to be an
heiress after all, and against my will.” And then: “Mr. Stone thinks
my father is dead.”

He was silent.

“You think so, too, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Honesty compelled him to the answer. “I am afraid that it is
true,” he said softly.

“Poor father! And yet--he meant so little to me, Billy. He was as much
a stranger as you were. Is there an instinct that makes children
recognise their own parents?”

“I don’t think so,” said Bill. “The only instinct to which children
respond is that which makes them give love for love and care for care.
That is how I have sized it up. If you give children affection and
thought and sympathy, why, they return it to you, whether you’re their
father or their mother or their uncle or their cousin ninth removed.
If you give them justice, they’ll give you justice. A child is a
mirror.”

“You talk almost like the President of an Orphan Home,” she said with
a faint smile.

“Don’t I just? Children have been a study of mine. I don’t think you
need grieve too much. Remember, your father thought you were dead, and
had ceased to mourn you--and anyway, had never known you or given you
the chance of loving him.”

“I think I’ll come up to the deck after all,” she said with a sigh.

While she went in to see whether her uncle had had his lunch, he
walked along to his own cabin. The steward was nowhere in sight, and
his hand was on the knob of the door when, looking up, he saw on the
white enamelled surface, the print of a large black hand. He looked at
it in amazement. Was that a warning? Turning the handle, he opened the
door and stepped in. He took one stride, then stood like a man
petrified.

Lying on his bed, his eyes half-shut, his clothes in rags, was a man.

For a second Bill did not recognise the haggard, unshaven face, and
then:

“My God!” he said. “Bullott, where did you come from?”




 CHAPTER XLIX.
 BULLOTT EXPLAINS

“Shut the door,” said Bullott faintly, “and lock it. They got me
last night. It was my own fault. He told me to be careful, and, like a
fool, I came on to the deck and Laffin recognised me, and one of his
men got a knife in before I could pull a gun.”

“Laffin? Is it he you are speaking about?”

Bullott smiled faintly.

“I’ll tell you later,” he said. “Is that door locked?”

Bill assured him it was.

“Who lives opposite to you?”

“Sir John and Lady Wilford,” said Bill. “I was asking the purser
about them. They came on board at Southampton. Sir John is an invalid
and his wife nurses him.”

“Ever come down for meals?”

“No,” said Bill in surprise. “What do you suggest? Who are they?”

“I’ll tell you that later, too,” grunted Bullott.

There was no need to ask where the hand print had come from; both his
hands were the colour of soot and greasy withal.

“You’ve been working in the engine-room,” accused Bill.

Bullott’s face twitched.

“Yes, I’ve been greasing,” he said laconically. “It is not so nice a
job as you’d think, but I’ve got the constitution. Anything
happened?”

“Nothing, except that they’ve taken all our guns away on a fake
message from New York. The purser has them.”

The man moved uneasily on the bed and winced with the pain of it. Bill
would have sent for the doctor, but he refused that help.

“It is only a cut--snicked one of the ribs.”

He showed the wound, which was more serious than he had imagined. Bill
dressed it as well as he could, and when he had made the man
comfortable:

“Now, tell me what in thunder this is all about. To where did you
disappear?”

“I disappeared the night Sir John and his lady went overboard and
their places were taken by Harvey Hale and Dr. Laffin. I saw the ketch
in the fog--we nearly collided with it. It came alongside, and I was
one of the few who were looking overboard at that hour, certainly the
only man who saw two people slide down a rope and two others take
their place, helped by I don’t know how many steerage passengers!
Quick! You’ve no idea how quick they were. They were in my cabin
before I could return.”

“Incidentally they doped the glass of water that had been put for you
there.”

Bullott nodded.

“I heard about that,” he said. “I went down to the engine-room. I
thought I had better clear. And I hoped that my disappearance would
lead to a thorough search of the ship and the discovery that Laffin
was on board. I suppose you wonder why I didn’t tackle him
single-handed? Well, I’ll tell you. He isn’t single-handed, not by
eighty! You haven’t looked at the steerage, have you? The toughest
crowd that has ever sailed out of Southampton. There isn’t one of them
that would be admitted to the United States.”

“Then why on earth--” began Bill.

“Because they’re not going to be admitted to the United States,” said
Bullott with a mirthless smile. “No, I’d already arranged through the
Yard where I should go to, and the captain knew all about it.”

“Are you sure?” said Bill incredulously.

“Absolutely sure. He’s a pretty good actor, that captain. Most of
these Yankee seamen have faces that won’t tell on ’em! I’ve been
greasing down in the engine-room and it is hell! The only time I saw
you near to was when I looked over the rails. I’ve seen you in the
distance a dozen times.”

“Does the captain know?”

“The captain knows all that I know,” said Bullott, “but he doesn’t
take the same view that I take. You see, we didn’t know enough, before
the ship sailed, for Scotland Yard to issue any more than the usual
official warning. They knew that an attempt would be made on the
strong-room, but then, they know that every voyage, and take the
necessary precautions. Where are you going now?”

Bill had remembered that he had promised to join the girl on deck.

“Wait.” Bullott raised a warning finger. “You’re not to tell anybody
I’m here. The right people will find out soon enough.”

With this observation, Bill went back to Betty Carew, and it only
needed one glance at his face to tell her that something unusual had
happened.

“I don’t want to lie to you,” he said, “but it is true that there has
been an extraordinary development, but I cannot tell you what it is.”

“What do you want me to do--anything?” she asked.

“Nothing at all.”

The swell was more pronounced now, but Clive Lowbridge had managed to
drag himself on to the deck, and fell gracefully into a chair by her
side.

“There’s nothing romantic about seasickness, is there?” he groaned.
“I feel that even Benson despises me.”

Benson, who stood rigidly by, with a rug over his arm, showed neither
contempt nor approval.

“You’re a good sailor, Benson?”

“Yes, Madam, a perfect sailor. I have served at sea.”

“As a steward?”

“Yes, Madam. I have travelled many thousands of miles. Is there
anything more you require, my lord?”

“Nothing, thank you, Benson.”

Benson made as though he were going away, but stopped and looked
hesitatingly at the girl.

“Would Mr. Stone consider it an impertinence if I offered to help him
a little? I understand that he is ill?”

“He had a bad fall,” said the girl, that being the fiction that they
had agreed upon. “I’m sure he would be awfully pleased of any help you
could give him, Benson.”

With a little nod, the tall man disappeared through the companion
opening.

“Funny devil, that. I never know quite what to make of him,” said
Lowbridge languidly. “He’s the most perfect servant I’ve ever had; he
gives me no trouble; never asks for his wages at inconvenient moments,
though they’re low enough, heaven knows, and never so much as hints at
his dissatisfaction with my humble estate. There are times,” he
mused, “when I think that Benson is too good to be true.”

She laughed.

“Well, what does our young journalistic friend think of things? Does
he believe we shall be murdered before we reach New York? Billy--is it
Billy?” he laughed softly. “Forgive me,” as he saw the colour rise
in her face. “He’s rather a nice boy, that--I speak from the eminence
of thirty-one years, which is a very lofty plane indeed. He’s a nice
boy, and if--if it was hopeless for me, I’d be glad if--there’s
another if!”

“Don’t say any more, Clive.” She laid her hand on his arm. “The ‘if’
is a very big one just at present, isn’t it?”

“Which?”

“The Laffin ‘if’.”

“I don’t believe he’s on board, and if he is, why, it ought to be an
easy matter to arrest him, the brute! How long do we stay in New
York?” he asked.

“In New York? I--I have the queerest feeling at this moment that we’ll
never reach New York.”

Clive Lowbridge raised his languid eyebrows.

“For heaven’s sake, Betty, don’t get such horrible ideas,” he said
petulantly. “You’re an awfully depressing influence these days. It
must be your association with our crime expert!”

“I don’t know why I said that, and I know less why I felt as I did,
but the idea of going to New York at all seemed, in that second, such
an impossible one; and yet we are not more than three or four days
from that city, are we?”

“Ninety-six hours, to be exact,” said Clive. “And there are sixty
minutes in every hour. And when you are feeling as I am feeling at
this moment, considerably more than sixty seconds in every
minute--it’s a horrible prospect!”

Billy had gone back to his wounded friend and found him half-dozing.
He had locked him in the cabin and carried the key in his pocket. The
sound of the turning lock woke the detective, and when Bill opened the
door he saw his hand was underneath his pillow.

“Bullott, I’m going to bring the captain down to see you.”

“Don’t,” said the other laconically; “I’ve already sent him a note.
And I can tell you, the captain is absolutely fed up with me. He
regards me as a sensationalist who is trying to work up a scare.
People say that the sea makes a man imaginative--rubbish! There is
nothing so unimaginative as a seaman--otherwise, he’d never go to sea!
He may believe in ghosts, and he may be superstitious about unlucky
ships, but he refuses to see more than the barometer can show him.
He’s a man who deals with hard facts, with the relative position of
the sun and the horizon, with the pull of currents and the habits of
icebergs, the unintelligence of pilots and the extortions of harbour
customs.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” laughed Bill.

“I guess I do. I’ve been classifying criminal minds for years, and
I’ve come across a few seamen--they’re all alike. Holbrook,” he went
on more seriously, “if what I think is going to happen does, then
there’s going to be hell on board this packet. You’ve got to get the
purser to hand over those guns to the people who own ’em.”

Bill shook his head.

“I’ve tried and failed. And I don’t think it really matters. Not a
half per cent. of the people who carry a gun can use one. Haven’t you
read the story of the terrified passengers on the train that was held
up--more guns than money, and three men skinned nine cars and got away
without a scratch?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said the detective. “In the meantime, go
along and pinch a gun for yourself.”

Bill smiled and touched his laden hip pocket. He had not been in the
purser’s cabin for nothing.




 CHAPTER L.
 THE EVENING OF THE BALL

There was nothing unusual in the appearance of U.S.S. _Escorial_ to
suggest the imminence of a tragedy. The bugles called regularly to
luxurious meals, the pillared swimming-bath echoed with the laughter
of young people and the splash and gurgle of water. The band played in
the social hall, where the elderly and the middle-aged preferred to
take their tea. The smoke-room was crowded from afternoon till night,
and the eight, or more than eight, crooks who worked this particular
ship went about their unlawful occupations with skill and modesty.

A fancy dress ball had been announced for that night: the notice was
up in the hall, with the further information that dresses, masks,
wigs, etc., could be obtained from the amazing barber, who supplied
everything from shoe-laces to surreptitious roulette wheels, for the
comfort and pleasure of the _Escorial’s_ guests. As he was shaving
Bill he offered his assistance.

“I could make you up so that nobody would know you,” he said.

“Thank you--I’m in the publicity business,” interrupted Bill.

That night, after dinner, the centre of the social hall was cleared,
and carpets rolled up, exposing a well-sprung dancing floor, and when
the hall began to fill, and the trap drummer of the band made his
presence known, it was difficult for Betty to believe that they were
on a ship in the middle of the ocean, more than a thousand miles from
the nearest land.

“It’s very wonderful!” she breathed. He had found a tapestried sofa
for her, coffee had been served, and Mr. Stone, a little pale but
otherwise cheerful, had been assisted into a corner seat, his wound
hidden beneath a black silk bandage.

“Why do you go so often to your cabin? One would think you had a sick
child!” she smiled, when Bill came back for the third time.

There was an opportunity now, for the band was playing noisily and the
sound of voices and laughter made it impossible that he could be
overheard.

“Bullott is in my cabin,” he whispered. “Nobody must know.”

When the dance had finished, she rose.

“Take me on to the deck,” she commanded, and he led her to the
forward part of the promenade, which at this hour was bare of people.
“Now tell me,” she said. “Bullott is in your cabin? Why doesn’t he
come up?”

She listened without interruption.

“He thinks something is going to happen?”

“I won’t deceive you--he does. So do I.”

“It’s in the air to-night. I couldn’t help feeling, when I saw those
dominoes and masks dancing on the floor, how easy it would be--oh no,
that would be too absurd. I’m thinking in terms of melodrama.”

“Melodrama belongs to the world,” said Bill. “There isn’t a police
station that isn’t full of it; there isn’t an insane asylum that
doesn’t have it all, from Act One to the final drop.”

“I’d like to see Mr. Bullott,” she said suddenly.

Bill was in a dilemma; he was already regretting that he had broken
faith with his friend.

“I’ll take you down,” he said.

To his relief, Bullott was rather amused than otherwise at the sight
of the girl.

“I thought he’d tell _you_,” he said, and she flushed at the emphasis
he laid on the last word. “Come right in, Miss Stone, and find a place
to sit. It isn’t my cabin, and where Holbrook is going to sleep
to-night I don’t know.”

“I’ve come to ask you to tell me something, Mr. Bullott,” she said.
“Is there really any serious danger?”

“Here, on the _Escorial_? Yes, there is some sort of danger for a few
people here.”

“For me?”

He looked perplexed.

“I don’t know--yes, I guess there is,” he said. “You want the
truth?”

She nodded her thanks.

“Is there any way by which that danger can be avoided? Can’t somebody
be told?” There was a hint of impatience as well as anxiety in her
voice.

“Why, no,” said Bullott, considering the matter. “If we were
travelling by railroad, there’d be an alarm signal that we could pull,
and the train would stop and a policeman would come along and inquire.
But nothing stops an ocean liner except a rock or an iceberg, or
maybe, a man overboard; and they don’t stop so long for that. We’ve
got to go through with it. I’ve told the officers and they just looked
at me as though I were not quite right in the head. My only hope is
that I get a reply to the radio I’ve sent to Scotland Yard. That’s the
only kind of reply that is worth while.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Do you know Halifax? There are two British cruisers there, the
_Sussex_ and the _Kent_, fast commerce destroyers. I’ve asked for a
convoy.”

Bill looked at him awe-stricken.

“You never have, Bullott! You’ve taken a risk.”

“I’m taking a worse one,” said Bullott. “I thought it out one night,
when I was working down in that hot place”--he pointed to the floor.
“It seemed the only thing that I could do. I’ve got the codebook with
me that we use on special occasions. Fortunately, there’s a code word
for Kent and one for Sussex, so I could send it without letting the
operator know what I was getting at. It was the last thing I did
before I came in here. I was hiding all this morning, down amongst the
mailbags--you wouldn’t think I could get there, but I did. I had to
run the gauntlet to reach this cabin. A whole lot of people didn’t
think I’d get here, either,” he added, with a chuckle, “and not only
thought so, but made it pretty hard for me to take that short journey.
I’ve hidden in every kind of place--ventilators, bulkheads, rope
stores, and if I’d been seen for the fraction of a second I’d have
been a dead man.”

“Not this morning in broad daylight?”

“This morning in broad daylight. Where’s Benson?” he asked.

“Whom do you mean--not Lord Lowbridge’s servant?” said the girl.
“He’s with my father.”

Bullott grunted something.

“It’s going to be some job,” he said at last. “No, Miss Stone,
there’s nothing you can do for me, except to keep it secret that I’m
back. I’m not squealing because Holbrook told you; I expected he
would.”

He put his hand under his pillow again and took out a small Browning.

“Ever use a pistol?”

She nodded.

“In dramas,” she said.

“Well, I hope you won’t use it in this drama. That’s loaded. Can you
hide it somewhere--in your bag, maybe,” he said, looking down at the
little bag at her wrist. “That’s good! Don’t forget that it is loaded,
and push down the safety catch with your thumb before you press the
trigger. You’ve nine chances there.”

Her face was white.

“Are you armed also?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“But don’t you think I ought to tell Mr. Stone?”

He considered this, and decided against such a course.

“The fewer people know, the better. It might have been wiser to have
told the passengers in the first place, but I did not know in
time--you can leave the key on the inside; I think I can lock and
unlock it now. My wound is much easier.”

They heard the door locked as they turned into the alleyway.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked, as they reached the deck.

“I’ve been wondering rather what _you_ think,” said Bill.

“You mean if I’m frightened? I was a little bit, but not now. If I
only knew where the danger was coming from, and exactly how it
threatens----”

“I feel that way myself,” said Bill. “It’s the uncertainty of it, the
nervous expectation of attack from all sides that rattles me.” He
drew a long breath.

“Why that sigh?” she asked with a smile.

“I’m wondering about the _Sussex_ and the _Kent_. Warships are a hobby
of mine,” he said.

All that night Bill sat aloof, literally his back to the wall,
watching every point, every move, ready keyed up to deal with the blow
when it struck.

He had declined Stone’s offer to sleep in the suite.

“I shall be much better outside,” he said. “It’s only a few paces to
the lower promenade deck; I can watch both the doors and the
windows,” he added.

The night steward saw him and grinned his respectful admiration of
Bill Holbrook’s eccentricity.

“I can’t understand why you always sit up all night, sir. You’re not
afraid of shipwreck, are you?” asked the steward.

That explanation had never occurred to Bill.

“Got it first time, son,” he said solemnly. “I have a mad passion for
dying well-dressed.”

The steward lingered to gossip.

“I’ve never known a voyage like this; nothing’s happened,” he said.
“Dead and alive voyage, I call it.”

“What do you want to happen?” asked Bill.

“Oh, nothing,” said the man vaguely; “only.… stewards like to see
something doing. It doesn’t seem natural for a voyage to be--well,
just a voyage. You’re an American, sir, aren’t you?”

“I have that peculiarity,” said Bill.

“Doesn’t it strike you that things are very quiet on the _Escorial_.
Of course, a fancy dress ball wakens them up a bit, but lord! nothing
to what I have seen in my time. Why, I’ve known the smoke-room to be
full from the beginning of the voyage to the end! That was in the days
before the ships went dry,” he said regretfully.

After a while he made a reluctant retirement, and Bill was left alone.
From time to time he walked down the promenade deck and glanced left
and right. At least he expected some appearance of Laffin’s men, and
his nerves were on edge. But all that he could see was the empty sweep
of the deck, and all he heard was the scrub--scrub--scrub overhead;
the watch was making the decks presentable for the day that soon would
dawn.

Was he mistaken, after all? Had Laffin and his villainy so shaken him
that he saw the doctor’s hand in everything--he remembered the
poisoned water, the midnight intruder to Stone’s suite.… Bullott lying
wounded in his cabin.… No, something was afoot--some diabolical
mischief that he could not fathom.

The second officer came down the stairs from the upper deck. He was
wearing his heavy sea boots and had evidently come straight from duty
on the bridge.

“Can’t sleep?” he said with a pleasant smile. “I’d like to change
places with you!”

Above him he heard the voices of the watch. The quartermaster was
giving an order, and grumbling in lurid language at the inefficiency
of one of his team. And then his heart leapt. He saw the door of
Betty’s room open slowly… he saw her peeping round the edge of the
door, and her smile reassured him.

“I’ve just wakened up. Is it very late?”

“Nearly four,” he said.

“I don’t think I can sleep any more. Won’t you go and lie down?”

He shook his head, and, with a little nod, she closed the door, and he
heard the lock snap. At any rate, he could walk on the deck for a few
minutes, and he was glad of the respite.

Yes, the watch were at their work, their long scrubbers moving
leisurely; he heard the swish and swirl of water as it was thrown
across the deck, the bubbling of the hosepipe--pleasant, homely sounds
that filled him with a sense of security.

He was wondering whether any reply had come to Bullott’s radio, and
mounting the companion he walked along the bridge deck and tapped at
the door of the wireless hut. The operator on duty opened it for him.

“Hullo! Any more messages?” he asked. “The old man properly turned
you down! He sent a radio to New York to ask if you were batty.
Haven’t had a reply yet.”

“Have you got a message for Bullott?”

“What’s the good? He’s not here, is he? He’s the man that fell
overboard in the Channel.”

“He’s here all right,” said Bill.

He closed the door behind him and sat down on the operator’s table.

“There’s no wire for you. There’s one from Esyard, whoever that may
be, and it is intended for the Captain.”

“I think that is the one I’m waiting for,” said Bill.

“Can’t give it to you, son,” said the man briskly. “It belongs to the
skipper. I’ll give it to him as soon as he wakes. Yards of it!”

“Do the words Kent and Sussex appear in the message?” asked Bill.

“Good Lord, you’re a thought reader! Yes, they do! They’re code
though, aren’t they? Otherwise it is a plain English message, I can
tell you. Something about ‘_Kent_ and _Sussex_ proceeding
immediately.’ There’s lashings of a code wire for the Captain--six
pages of it.”

“My friend, you’ll be wise if you wake the Captain and give him that
message,” said Bill earnestly. “You don’t know what may depend upon
it.”

The operator grinned.

“I know what would happen if I woke him,” he said; “life would lose
its savour for three or four voyages. Hullo, who’s that?”

Somebody had knocked at the door. He unfastened the catch and threw it
open. For a second he did not see anything, and then out of the
darkness came a black shape, masked from head to foot; the two eyes
glittered through an opening in the cowl, and the barrel of a pistol
covered him.

“Don’t move, don’t touch that instrument, or you’re a dead man!” said
a gruff voice. “In the name of the Proud Sons of Ragousa, I order you
step out and step lively!”




 CHAPTER LI.
 THE CONTROL

The curious mixture of pomp and argot would in any other
circumstances have aroused Bill to merriment; but now, as something
cold gripped his heart, he knew that the hour of crisis had arrived,
and followed the operator to the dark deck.

There were other cloaked forms there; Bill counted ten; there were
probably more.

“Get into that cabin,” ordered the spokesman of the Proud Sons, and
his companion obeyed. “Take off all messages that come, shoot anybody
who attempts to open the door, and, if the worst comes to the worst,
destroy the instruments and smash those valves.”

“All right,” growled the other.

“Where is your cabin?” demanded the chief spokesman.

“Aft. What is the game?” began the radio man.

“Don’t ask questions. Take this man to his cabin and lock him in. What
are you?” He was speaking to Bill, and Holbrook was happy in the
thought that he had not been recognised.

“I’m a passenger,” he said.

“Keep him here. Go forrard, you men.”

The mask who was evidently in command towered above his fellows, a
veritable giant. Bill saw them moving forward towards the bridge, and
presently they were lost to view. He heard nothing, till there was a
cry and the muffled sound of a shot. One of the men who were guarding
him said something in a low voice; what it was Bill could not hear.

He guessed what had happened before two of the robed men came along
the deck, supporting a limp figure, that in the growing light Bill
recognised as the officer of the watch.

“Put him in that second cabin.”

What had happened to the captain? His stateroom was immediately behind
the bridge. Bill was to learn.

“When the skipper comes to his senses, handcuff him and keep him
locked in his cabin. Seventy-nine and eighty, go forrard and search
his cabin for arms. The armoury is behind; I’ve got the key of that.
Don’t interfere with the stewards unless they get fresh--the
passengers are to be kept quiet.”

A figure came running up the ladder and saluted.

“Control established in the engine-room, sir,” he reported.

“Muster the deck hands aft,” said the tall commander. “Go back to
them, Sam, and say a few short words about what’s going to happen if
they give us any trouble. You know the line of talk that’ll scare that
trash.”

When they brought the injured officer along, they had pushed Bill back
against the rail, and now that their attention was directed to some
happening elsewhere, he seized his opportunity. In a second he had
slipped over the rail, and went down the stanchion hand over hand, and
apparently his departure was not noticed.

The watch had disappeared from the deck; evidently they had been
shepherded aft. As he darted into the companionway, he caught sight of
the night steward, and whistled to him softly. In a few words he told
that startled man what had happened.

“You people are safe,” he said; “they may skin the passengers, but
the stewards will carry on as usual. I want a steward’s suit from you;
can you fix me?”

“Does the captain know?”

“I guess he does know,” said Bill, without troubling to explain.
“This is a fact, and there’s no sense in asking questions. Can you get
me a suit--if so, get it quick!”

The steward led him down to an unused cabin, in which, as Bill
suspected, he slept, contrary to ship’s regulations. From a locker he
produced a suit of white ducks, and Holbrook changed instanter. His
scheme was a simple one. He guessed rightly that the pirates would
take little notice of the ship’s staff, so long as they carried out
instructions. In this capacity he might have an opportunity of
protecting the girl.

He was no sooner dressed than he borrowed the steward’s razor and
lather-brush, and although he was clean-shaven, he made a marvellous
transformation of his face, for he removed the rather heavy eyebrows
that were a feature of his face. The change was so marked that the
steward at first hardly recognised him.

“I know a crook who used to walk past the man who was looking for him
on the strength of shaved eyebrows,” said Bill. “It is a little
wheeze that I remembered in time. Now go forrard and see the purser,
if they haven’t already got him. Tell the chief steward--he knows
me--what I’m doing, and ask the rest of the men to keep their mouths
shut. This means money for them when we reach New York.”

“What are they going to do to us, sir?”

The steward was less concerned with the fortune that might await him
in New York City than with his personal safety. He was a man with
three children, as he explained several times, and had a mother
dependent on him.

As soon as Bill got rid of him, he hastened to his own cabin, knocked
at the door and Bullott opened to him, and stepped back in amazement
at the appearance of this stranger. It took a few seconds for Bill to
explain what had happened.

“The ship is manned by the Sons of Ragousa--the Twenty-Third Degree is
operating powerfully! I think I can keep myself hidden, but what of
you, Bullott?”

“They’ll not hurt me,” said Bullott. “They were chiefly anxious that
their game should not be exposed before they came into action. I doubt
if they will hurt anybody.”

He looked at Bill strangely.

“Unless it is you,” he said quietly.

“But why me?” asked Holbrook, genuinely surprised that he should be
singled out of all the others for punishment.

“I have an idea,” said the other, and then: “Your only chance is to
keep out of sight and watch points. I don’t think I should stay here
if I were you.”

When Bill rejoined his steward friend, he found him talking with an
agitated purser, and it said much for the efficacy of his disguise
that he was not immediately recognised.

“They have taken charge of my office,” said the officer, when
Holbrook made himself known. “So far there has been no bloodshed,
although I’ve an idea that something happened on the bridge. I’ve had
orders to keep the passengers in the dark, but to carry on the duties
as though nothing had happened. There’s going to be a panic amongst
them if this gets known.”

“Where did the men come from?” asked Bill.

“They were all in the steerage,” said the purser. “I had my
suspicions when we left Southampton that the crowd we carried forrard
were a tough lot. What are you going to do, Mr. Holbrook?”

“I’ve signed on as a steward for the rest of the trip.”

“They will recognise you,” he said, “that is, if they know you at
all. You might pass muster here in artificial light, but the moment
they see you by daylight--go along and see the barber: he may fix you
up.”

The barber! Bill remembered the urgent importunity of that universal
provider on the previous afternoon, and without another word went down
to the deck where the barber’s shop was situated, and found the worthy
man in a condition of excitement, for the news had run like wildfire
amongst the stewards that the ship was in the hands of a hold-up gang.

“Yes, yes, but I can’t be bothered now, Mr. Holbrook,” he said
irritably. “My God, what’s going to happen to us if they scuttle the
ship? And they’ll think no more of scuttling the ship----”

Bill pushed him into his spacious cabin and shut the door.

“If they scuttle the ship they’ll drown themselves, and they’ve no
intention of doing anything so stupid,” he said. “Now listen to me!
The only chance we have of beating this crowd is for one of the people
on board who knows the gang to be free to move about. Produce your
moustache, man, and make good your boast, that my own maiden aunt
would not know me!”

The barber was in no mood to assist the masquerade, but after a little
persuasion, and the skinning of yet another note from the reporter’s
wad, he seated him in his chair, and for a quarter of an hour, with
many fearful backward glances lest an apparition in black appeared
suddenly in the doorway, worked on his subject. When he had finished,
Bill gazed into the mirror, a truly astonished man.

During the period he was in the chair, he had developed a pair of
shaggy red eyebrows, and a short-clipped, red moustache; his hair was
almost the colour of Betty Carew’s, and was parted and curled in a
manner repugnant to his finest feelings.

“Gosh!” he said in wonder.

The barber so far forgot his trepidation as to purr complacently.

“You wouldn’t get that done better in London, sir,” he said. “All
you’ve got to do now is to come and see me every morning, and I’ll
keep your hair right.”

Bill eventually found the purser: he was deep in conversation with a
masked figure that stood before his sometime office. Looking round, he
saw the waiting steward and waved him away impatiently.

“What do you want?” he snapped, when at last the parley was at an
end. “I don’t want to be bothered. Get your orders from the chief
steward.”

“Come along with me to the chief steward, and tell him to do as I
ask,” said Bill, and the purser’s jaw dropped.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Bill grinned. It was then that he made himself known.

“I want you to tell the chief steward to put me in charge of Suite H,
Mr. Stone’s cabin. Nobody is to know who I am, not even Mr. Stone or
his niece, unless they find out for themselves.”

“Wait a minute,” said the purser; “I want to think this out! If you
go down to the steward’s quarters they’ll spot you, and there’s bound
to be one of them in with this crowd and you’ll be betrayed. You’d
better use an empty cabin to sleep in at night, and keep as far away
from the stewards’ quarters as you can. Who is your own steward?”

Bill told him.

“Well, he can come on and help you. What do you think they’re going to
do with us, Mr. Holbrook?”

“They’ll clear the ship of valuables, and of course the fifty million
dollars in your safe will be practically in their hands.”

“It is in their hands already,” interrupted the purser bitterly.
“They’ve got the boxes piled up in my office. But what can they do?
They’ll be caught.”

“Why should they be caught?” asked Bill. “You’re arguing on unknown
factors. This crime was inevitable. Sooner or later, it was certain
that a ship would be held up in mid-ocean--it’s the easiest thing in
the world, easier than holding up a citizen on the East Side. A big
ship, crowded with passengers, carrying millions and millions of
dollars’ worth of property, is as easy a prey as a hornless cow! Why,
you do not even carry a policeman!”

“They’re working on the registered mail now.” In spite of his
stoicism the voice of the purser grew tremulous. “What a thing to
happen!”

“Do the passengers know?”

“No, none of them, and they’re not to know. Anyway, the passengers are
only brought into contact with the stewards, the purser and the chief
steward. You’re an ocean traveller--what do the passengers know,
anyway? They never meet the captain or the ship’s officers; they’ll go
on and on, unconscious of anything wrong, until--” he stopped.

“Were you going to say until the vessel reaches New York?”

“That was what I was going to say,” said the purser. “But shall we
reach New York?”

“I doubt it. They’ll know when the gang go after their jewels.”

“Why should they? The valuable jewels are kept in my safe; they’re
taken out every night. And the passengers’ money is there, too,” the
purser groaned. “I’ve got orders to pay out any cash that the owners
require, so that they shall not be suspicious, and the only change
they’ve made is to prohibit the use of the boat deck. They’ve put a
quartermaster at each gangway to stop people going up, and the
elevator isn’t allowed to work above B. deck.” He wrung his hands in
despair. “My God, what a horrible position!” he said. “Do you know
what has happened to the captain?”

“I can guess,” said Bill curtly.

“They’ve got four men in the engine-room. I don’t know how many on the
bridge. There are machine-guns covering the deck hands’ quarters,
guards on the provision store--everywhere, except where there’s
passengers to see them. The man who planned this was a genius.”

It happened providentially that the Stones’ steward had been taken ill
the night before, and the appearance of a new man excited no unusual
interest. Stone, who was still far from recovered from the attack upon
him, had his breakfast served in his own stateroom, and this morning
Betty joined him. She asked sympathetically about the missing steward,
and Bill replied in monosyllables. He was desperately anxious that the
girl should not recognise him, and when Betty looked at his face and
asked him to carry a message to himself, he blessed the ingenious
barber who had so completely changed his appearance.

The need for disguise was made apparent when he reached his own cabin
and found two men making a very thorough search of the apartment. The
bed had been thrown off, the wardrobe was open. One of the searchers
turned to him as he came in--

“Where’s Holbrook?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

Neither of them wore the conventional livery of the Proud Sons, and
Bill guessed that those of the gang who it was absolutely necessary
should be brought into contact with the passengers went undisguised so
that the travellers should not be alarmed. Afterwards he discovered
that the raiders had entirely dispensed with their robes after the
first attack. Bill, watching the searchers, wondered whether they
expected to find the missing Holbrook concealed underneath the
mattress, but wisely decided that it was not a moment for
facetiousness.

“I don’t know, sir; he hasn’t been in his cabin all night.”

“Don’t you go telling him we’re looking for him,” said the other
threateningly. “You’ve had your orders, steward?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bill humbly, and went back to Betty, with a note
that he had scribbled between the cabins, and which she read with a
puzzled expression.

“Mr. Holbrook says we mustn’t expect to see him for the next three
days,” she said, as she tossed the letter across to her uncle.

Mr. Stone read the note.

“Humph!” he said. “What is he doing with himself? I’ll go along to
his cabin.”

“I don’t think you’d better, sir,” said Bill. He had cultivated a
high falsetto voice that set Betty Carew’s teeth on edge. “He said he
didn’t want to see anybody. I think he has had a radio from his
office.”

The girl and her uncle looked at one another.

“Perhaps he has some work to do,” she said uneasily.

Bill went on deck to carry up the girl’s cushion and book, and the
deck steward, whom he met, glanced at him suspiciously.

“Hullo, where have you come from?” he asked.

“Ask no questions,” snapped Bill, “and attend to your own business.”

It was the only tone to adopt, and the steward fell into the natural
error that the new man was one of the gang which he knew was in
control of the _Escorial_. In the circumstances Bill could only marvel
at the extraordinary discipline which such men as he displayed. By no
secret confidence did they betray the danger in which these gaily clad
men and women stood. It was no strange phenomenon, however. He had
travelled in ships where suicides and murders had been committed under
his nose, which he had known nothing about until he had read the
report of the inquest.

An idea occurred to him and he sought out the deck steward.

“I shall be helping you up here,” he said, trying to impart a world
of meaning into his tone.

The steward touched his cap.

“All right, sir,” he said. “Excuse me if I was a little short with
you, but I didn’t tumble to you.”

“None of the passengers knows?”

“No, sir; we’ve had strict orders to keep every bit of news from them.
I must say,” he said, with the reluctant admiration which the
law-abiding have for the lawless, “you’ve managed the job very well!”

Bill growled an acknowledgment of this unsubtle flattery, and busied
himself with the requirements of the loungers.

At eleven o’clock bouillon was served, and he helped the deck steward
in its distribution. Clive Lowbridge refused the cup with a little
grimace, and Bill smiled to himself when he saw, out of the tail of
his eye, the ubiquitous Benson bearing a glass of seltzer water and a
large biscuit to his master. The weather was not so warm as it had
been. He saw the girl shiver and went down to her cabin and brought
her furs.

“How very nice of you, steward!” said the girl in surprise as he put
the cloak about her shoulders. “Have you seen Mr. Holbrook again?”

“Yes, Miss, I just met him in the alleyway. I think he has been
writing.”

She laughed softly.

“You haven’t to be a detective to discover that, have you?” she said.
“Poor Mr. Holbrook carries the marks of his profession.”

“How?” asked Stone.

“Have you never seen the ink on his fingers?” she asked, and Bill
went a fiery red. Fortunately she did not observe his perturbation,
and he hurried away, to examine in private his tell-tale fingers.

“Anyway, there’s no ink on them now,” he said, as he scrubbed away
the last blue stains viciously.

When he returned, the deck steward called him aside and asked him to
take up a tray to the bridge.

“Your governor wants another bottle of whisky,” he said
confidentially, “and I’ll be glad if you would take it. I’m not a
nervous man, but----”

Herein was to be the supreme test. If Laffin was in charge, the shrewd
wits, no less than the keen vision, of that warped genius might reveal
his identity. Apparently, stewards had no difficulty in reaching the
boat deck, and he was not challenged when he carried the tray to the
foot of the bridge ladder. A man whom he knew looked down at him.

“Bring it up,” he said curtly, and Bill obeyed.

None of the three nondescripts who occupied the bridge wore either the
robe of the Order or the uniform of officers. He in charge sported a
brown Derby hat, and to add to the incongruity of his appearance he
wore a pair of old golf breeches, thick woollen stockings and bright
red slippers, which Bill remembered having seen in the captain’s
cabin. Any of the three might have walked out of a saloon on any sea
front in the world. Sailormen undoubtedly; ex-officers probably,
thought Bill, and toughs most certainly!

He bore the tray into what had been the captain’s cabin, which was now
occupied by a big man, who turned his head as Bill entered. Harvey
Hale!

“Put it down, son,” said the man gruffly. “All right below? None of
the passengers squeaking, eh? What’s your name?”

“Smithers,” said Bill immediately.

“Well see here, Smithers, you can go tell your pals they’re all right
unless they start any monkey business. You know me--you know my name,
don’t you? Never sailed with me, eh? Harvey Hale--that’s me. You’ll
remember my name?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bill, saying what was required of him.

“That’s good. You can tell the world you’ve met Harvey Hale--one of
these days. The big man with the big ideas. Get that right, son--the
big man with the big ideas! When you’re boasting about how you’ve met
me, don’t forget that! Harvey Hale, the Big Man with the Big Ideas!”




 CHAPTER LII.
 CHANGED CONDITIONS

Bill looked at him curiously. The captain had changed for the worse
since he had seen him last. He wore a pair of old khaki trousers and a
golf coat buttoned up to his chin, over which he had a worn khaki
overcoat which hung to his knees.

Suddenly his tone changed, and he became severely practical.

“Do you know a passenger named Holbrook? He was up here the other
morning, but I missed him somehow.”

“Yes, sir, I was looking after his cabin,” said Bill. “I haven’t seen
him since morning--he’s disappeared somewhere.”

The corner of Harvey Hale’s mouth lifted.

“And he’d better! That was a wise kid! Listen, boy, if you see him
tell him to come right along to me.”

“If I see him I shall certainly tell him that,” said Bill, emboldened
by the success of his disguise. “Better take me for your steward,
captain. You don’t want all sorts of fellows coming up and down
carrying stories. You never know what they will talk about.”

Hale seemed to take a favourable view of this, but, to Bill’s
surprise, would not come to a decision. From his attitude Holbrook was
certain that, though this swaggering freebooter might boast of his
position and his power, he was the subordinate of another, and had
little or no real authority in his hands.

That afternoon, Bill discovered that, if the secret of the morning’s
adventures had been well kept, there was a feeling of suspicion
abroad. The careless gaiety of the passengers who thronged the deck
was less marked. He saw grave faces, and one man, unknown to him,
buttonholed him in the companionway and asked him if anything was
wrong.

“No, sir,” said Bill; “what do you mean?”

“Well, is there any trouble up above?” The passenger jerked his thumb
in the direction of the heavens, but Bill guessed that he was
referring to the bridge.

“Not that I know, sir.”

“Somebody was hurt this morning,” said the passenger, by no means
reassured. “They say the captain’s dead.”

“I’ve heard nothing about it,” said Bill, and escaped.

The unobservant travellers could hardly fail to observe one peculiar
fact. They came up as usual from dinner, to find a remarkable change
in conditions. Betty, who did not leave the saloon until ten o’clock
(she had waited on, hoping that Bill would put in an appearance)
uttered a little gasp of wonder as she stepped out on to the deck.

“We’ve dined very early,” she said.

It was quite light. Every horizon was visible under the grey skies.
She looked at her watch.

“Why,” she said, “it is ten o’clock--ten o’clock at night and still
light! And, my! how cold it is!”

She woke the next morning shivering, and hastily pulled her fur coat
on to the bed. There was a knock at the door, and the new steward came
in.

“I’m going to put on your radiator if you don’t mind, Miss.”

“An electric radiator in July!” she said jerkily, for she was chilled
to the bone.

“It does seem queer,” said the new steward. “I shouldn’t get up,
Miss, until this cabin is warm.”

“Whatever has happened? Why is it so cold?” asked the muffled voice
of the girl from beneath the clothes.

“I don’t know,” said Bill. “Probably because it snowed in the night.
There’s two inches of it on the upper deck!”

He was one of the few who knew that for twenty-eight hours the
_Escorial_, leaving her course, had been steaming at full speed
northward into the frozen seas of the Arctic!




 CHAPTER LIII.
 BILL HAS A PLAN

There was nobody on deck when, putting on all the thick clothes he
could requisition, he went up and viewed the amazing scene.

The _Escorial_ had a maximum speed of thirty knots, and she had
steamed considerably over seven hundred miles northward. He guessed
that they were somewhere in the region of sixty degrees north. Every
seat, every rope was coated with ice; the snow lay upon the rails, and
gathered in little drifts in the well-deck forward. Far away, on the
port bow, he thought he detected a small iceberg. The weather was
clear, entirely free from fog; the sea remained smooth, and except for
the intensity of the cold, there was nothing to indicate that the ship
was on an unusual course. Icebergs are seen in July down as far as
latitude 50. They have been met with, in rare instances, as far south
as 40 in midsummer.

He had intended maintaining his disguise until something definite
happened, but there was no longer any necessity for keeping his secret
from Stone.

Apparently the men in control of the ship had also realised that their
presence had now become public property. Bill heard the rattle of
winches, and, going forward, saw that the muffled hands were bringing
up passengers’ heavy baggage. Soon after, the purser sent for him, and
ordered him to pass on the information that passengers might open
their heavy baggage and take out what clothing they required.

He had paid several visits to Bullott. The detective told him that so
far he had not been molested, though the two men whom Bill had seen
searching his own cabin had also made as thorough a search of
Bullott’s belongings.

“This move certainly puzzles me,” said Bullott. “I knew, of course,
they were steering north last night.”

“There is a good reason,” said Bill. “We shall be running into the
fog belt later in the day, and whether we do or not, we are well off
the regular track of shipping. Unless we happen to be seen by a chance
whaler or one of the Greenland trading ships, we shall have
disappeared from human knowledge.”

“But you can’t steal a ship and hide it in the Arctic,” protested
Bullott.

“They’re doing it,” was the laconic reply. “Here’s another point,
Inspector: the farther north we go the less danger there is to the
gang. The only possibility of recovering this ship is by a surprise
attack in the night--there will be no night from now onward!”

“You mean it will be light all night, of course?”

This contingency had not occurred to the detective.

Bill’s plan was already made. The key position was the wireless house.
Once he was in possession, ten minutes at the keyboard, and all the
well-laid plans of the Twenty-Third Degree would come to naught. But
he had already noted that the wireless house was guarded; he had seen
a man sitting in a deck chair near the door, and the operator was
presumably armed. His only chance would come in one of those dense
white fogs which are common in these seas.

He hurried away to find Betty’s baggage, and had singular good
fortune, for the Stones’ boxes were almost the first to come out of
the hold. With the help of a steward, he got these down to D. deck and
into the sitting-room, to Betty’s joy, for she was shivering in her
fur coat before the electric radiator, and Mr. Stone, with a blanket
over his thin suit, was walking up and down the little stateroom,
trying to get warm.

“What is this, steward?” he asked in surprise, as Bill came in,
dragging the first of the big trunks, and he could have fallen on his
neck when he explained.

The steward had something else to tell, and after he had finished,
Betty took him by the shoulder and brought his face toward the light
of the porthole, more interested in the change that the ingenious
barber had brought about than in her own deadly peril.

“It isn’t you, Billy?” she said. “Your hair----”

“It will take me years to get out the henna!” groaned Bill. “No man
has ever made such a sacrifice for a girl as I have made for you.”

She dropped her hand from his shoulder, and for a moment was convulsed
with silent laughter. Mr. Stone, however, was less amused.

“Where do we finish--at the North Pole?” he asked. “Why, this is
criminal! Half the wretched passengers will die of cold and
starvation.”

“They will be all right so long as the oil lasts,” said Bill, “but
what will happen if we get frozen in, and the oil supply goes west, I
shudder to think about.”

“But the food?”

“I don’t think there’s any immediate danger there. Did I ever tell you
about Toby Marsh’s mystery? He said that food and firearms were being
shipped to New York. Well, that was part of the scheme. Somewhere in
the hold is a big supply of canned food and flour. The arms, I
presume, are rifles and munitions for the gang--it would have been
pretty difficult for them to have brought these on board in any other
way.”

“But, Billy, you’re wonderful!” She was gazing spell-bound into his
face. “Where are your other eyebrows. And to think that you’ve been
coming in and out of the cabin since yesterday morning, and I haven’t
recognised you!”

He helped them to unpack, and Stone went off to find Lowbridge, whose
one trunk the new steward had retrieved. All Clive’s radiators were
on; he was wearing a heavy, fur-lined coat.

“Benson is providence!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been roasting him ever
since we left town for bringing this incubus, but he had an idea that
the nights in America were cold, and insisted upon taking it along. I
didn’t know I had it until I saw it hanging in the wardrobe.”

“One would almost think that Benson expected a visit to the Arctic
Circle,” said Stone drily.

Clive scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“That didn’t occur to me, but it certainly is a remarkable
coincidence. I should never suspect anything of--by Jove, I wonder!”

He looked at Stone, and Stone’s eyes surveyed the providential
fur-lined coat with a reflective eye. As he was going out he met
Benson. The valet wore two heavy sweaters under his coat, and gave
him, in his customary respectful way, a sedate good-morning.

“You seem to have been prepared for this cold spell, Benson?”

“Yes, sir, it is rather remarkable that the weather should change.
When do we reach New York, sir?”

“I’d like to be able to tell you,” said Stone.

He went back to Bill, and behind the bolted door there was a council
of war, the third member of which was the girl. Stone told the story
of the fur coat.

“Clive ought to know,” she said, but here Bill was firm.

“In ordinary circumstances I should say yes,” he replied, “but Lord
Lowbridge has a servant, whose foresight is a little disturbing. I
don’t think that he should know who I am. Why should Benson imagine
that it would be cold in America? He has been there before.”

“That certainly looks fishy,” said Stone thoughtfully. “Benson is a
queer bird--those quiet, suave men are usually deep. What are we to
do, Holbrook?”

“I’ll agree to another man being brought into our confidence. If you
don’t mind, I would like you to go along and see the ship’s doctor,
whose help will be necessary if my scheme is to be successful.”

When Stone had gone and he was alone with the girl.…

“Betty--I’m going to call you Betty--you don’t mind?”

She shook her head.

“You have that pistol which Bullott gave you?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“And if necessary you will use it--on anybody who attempts to harm
you… yes, there is that possibility. Laffin is aboard, and is in
control of the ship. He hasn’t interfered with you or your uncle yet
because he has his hands full with other matters. You told me the
other day that you were to be an heiress after all; what did you mean
by that?”

“I mean uncle told me that I was his only living relative, and his
money must come to me eventually--he made a will in my favour before
we left England.”

Bill nodded slowly.

“That accounts for the attack made on him. Laffin knows!”

“But that is impossible--how could he?”

“Laffin knows,” he insisted. “He has sources of information of which
we do not dream. You’re Laffin’s wife--if you are an heiress, he is
the husband of an heiress. Betty, if anything happens to me----”

The look that came to her face hurt and pleased him.

“To you?” she said, in a frightened voice. “Oh, Billy, nothing will
happen to you?”

“Anything is possible. I’m not trying to scare you--and I don’t think,
anyway, that you’re easily scared. I wish--you don’t know how badly I
wish--to give you courage. But you have to face every possibility,
Betty, my dear.”

He took her face in his hands and looked hungrily into her eyes.

“I never dreamt--I never hoped--” he said huskily, and then, before
he realised what he was doing, he had kissed her.

The sound of a handle turning checked the torrent of words that came
to his lips, and Mr. Stone came in, to find a very breathless, rather
pale young man, standing awkwardly and guiltily before his niece.

“Here is the doctor. I’ve told him a little,” said Stone as he bolted
the door. “He probably thinks I am mad--maybe you will be able to
convince him.”

The ship’s doctor, a man of middle age, was not as sceptical as Bill
had expected.

“I knew, of course, that the ship’s course had been altered,” he
said, “and, in common with the purser, I learnt that these blackguards
were in control. Mr. Stone says that you want my assistance. What is
your plan?”

Holbrook’s scheme had taken shape that morning.

“I must get into the wireless house. I understand radio fairly well,
and I used to be an expert telegraphist,” said Bill. “That was part
of my early training when I was working in America. But to get into
that caboose means that we must overcome the guard, and the only way
we can do that and escape a fuss is to dope him.”

Dr. Speer shook his head.

“If you gave them a slow dope it would take too long to work--” he
began.

“I don’t want a slow dope, I suggest something swift and sudden,”
interrupted Bill. “I expect they will allow me to go on the bridge to
take refreshments. At any rate, I have asked Hale for the job. They
have no regular steward except the men who are looking after their
cabins on the boat deck. Even if Hale doesn’t agree, I can go up
without being questioned--and that I intend doing the moment we strike
a fog bank--I don’t care what they discover after I’ve sent the
message.”

Speer pursed his lips; it was a new experience for a respectable
medical practitioner.

“Butyl is the stuff you want,” he said, “and I have a quantity of
that in store--I’ll make certain. You will be taking a big risk, young
man.”

“We are taking risks as it is,” said Bill impatiently. “You do not
know the men we are dealing with.”

The doctor went away, and returned almost immediately with a fluted
green flask, the stopper of which was sealed.

“Here is the stuff,” he said, and gave Holbrook a brief lecture on
the dose and method of administration. “I have not used it for a
nefarious purpose, but I believe it is a drug commonly used by thugs
who wish to bring their victims to a state of immediate
insensibility.”

Bill slipped the bottle in his pocket and went out. It was not
advisable that he should be seen too much in the Stones’ cabin; they,
of all passengers, would be most closely watched, and he more than
suspected that one of the stewards on this deck was associated with
the pirates. The man had made a sudden appearance on this part of the
ship, and, when ordered to return to the steerage, where he belonged,
had flatly refused. Later, the purser received an intimation that the
man was not to be disturbed.

In one sense his strangeness to the saloon portion of the _Escorial_
worked to the advantage of Holbrook, for the steerage stewards had
special quarters, and he was not able to judge whether Bill was a
stranger or one of the ship’s company.

In the course of the day he made two visits to the forbidden deck,
once in company with another steward, when they took up and opened a
case of whisky for the use of the new officers, and once he carried
tea to the quartermaster of the watch.

He could not but admire the perfect organisation which had made this
coup possible. Duties were being carried out without a hitch. A new
set of quartermasters had appeared, and though the man at the wheel
was no longer a neatly uniformed sailor, but a nondescript figure
dressed in a soiled leather jacket such as is used by motorists, and
smoking a short clay pipe, the man was apparently as efficient as the
sailor he had relieved.

It was on his second visit that he was the witness of a spectacle
which would remain with him to the end of his days. He had not seen
Laffin since the night when the apparition had appeared in his cabin.
For some reason the doctor was keeping out of sight. But that he was
on board and in command, he knew, and the position he occupied was
revealed when Hale, watching the opening of the whisky case, had
ordered one of the men to take a bottle to “the Commodore’s
state-room.” Bill grinned inwardly at this description of his enemy.
But how seriously Laffin took his duties, he was to learn.

On his second visit he had put down the tray and had filled the
teacups with steaming liquid, when Hale’s voice called him into the
chart-house. The big man was leaning over an Admiralty chart on the
table, a pair of compasses in his hand, and an open book by his side.

“Steward, go down to the purser and tell him I want a full list of the
provisions on board to the last ounce,” he said. “And ask him to
break Number Four hold and get out all cases consigned to the Westbury
Corporation of New York.”

Bill touched his cap and, going down, passed the instructions to the
purser. He had guessed right about the provisions. How curious it was
that Toby Marsh, knowing so much of Laffin’s plans, had not revealed a
little more, he thought, until he remembered that scene of
reconciliation which had been witnessed on the Bath Road.




 CHAPTER LIV.
 IN THE WIRELESS HOUSE

He returned to the bridge with the information that he had fulfilled
his errand, and that the list could be placed in Hale’s hands before
the evening. It seemed an opportunity, he thought, when he reached the
boat deck, to make a reconnaissance of the wireless house. The guard
was still at the door as he walked past; he saw the glow of the valve
lamp through the cabin window.

The wireless cabin was steel built and was sited on a raised platform.
On three sides and near the roof were long, narrow windows of
toughened glass, that nearest and facing the bridge commanding an
uninterrupted view of the bridge companionway. All this he noted and
memorised.

Bill was curious to see how the gang had disposed of their prisoners,
the ship’s officers. He guessed that the big gymnasium was their
prison-house, and his view was confirmed when he saw the two sentries
standing before the door.

“Where are you going?” one called sharply.

“To the aft gangway, sir,” said Bill.

The man jerked his thumb towards the bridge.

“Go forrard,” he ordered.

Bill was about to turn, when the door of one of the aft cabins opened
and a man came out. For a second Holbrook gaped at him, paralysed with
amazement. It was the figure of a naval officer in full dress; a
gold-laced cocked hat was on his head, and the tightly-fitting
tail-coat blazed with decorations and orders. A broad strip of gold
ran the length of his trouser seams, and a naval sword dangled at his
waist.

For a moment he thought that he was suffering from some extraordinary
illusion, and then the strangely attired form moved towards him, and
Bill’s senses were so strained that he could hear the creak of the
enamelled boots.

Under the man’s arm was a telescope--but for that he might have been
walking across the yard of St. James’s Palace after a levee.

Laffin! But a transfigured Laffin. His breast was swollen, his chin
held high.

“What do you want, my man?” he asked.

Bill recovered his shattered wits and touched his hat obsequiously.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, in his falsetto, “but I was going
to the aft gangway; they tell me it’s closed.”

“Go forrard, my man, go forrard,” said the doctor, almost pleasantly,
and then, as he was moving away: “What do those folks think
downstairs?”

Now, “downstairs” is a term that is never used on board ship except
by the veriest amateur, certainly never by the admiral whose uniform
Laffin was wearing, and Bill had some difficulty in keeping a straight
face.

“They don’t know very much, sir. They’re wondering why it has turned
so cold.”

Dr. Laffin smiled.

“I suppose they are, I suppose they are,” he mused. “Whom do you look
after, my friend--you are a steward, are you not?”

“Mr. Stone, sir.”

The doctor’s eyebrows went up.

“Indeed? Mr. Lambert Stone and his beautiful niece? That is very
interesting. And how do Mr. Lambert Stone and his beautiful niece
accommodate themselves to the change? An experience for that young
lady, one thinks, a remarkable experience!”

With a lordly wave of his hand he dismissed the steward, and Bill
breathed more freely when he had reached the deserted promenade deck.

The passengers were now thoroughly alarmed. There had been something
of a mutiny in the second-class saloon, suppressed ruthlessly by three
of the gangsters who had been hastily summoned at the first sign of
disorder.

With evening a cold wind sprang up that made the deck a most
undesirable spot. Those who had to run the gauntlet to the crowded
smoke-room came shivering to the big fires which burnt at either end,
and told stories of icy alleyways and cabins where bed was the only
warm place.

At nine o’clock, when the passengers went to dinner that night, they
discovered that the menu had been cut in half.

There was yet another development, favourable to Holbrook’s plan. He
was tidying the Stones’ cabin when he felt the speed of the _Escorial_
slacken, and, going up on deck, found the ship enveloped in a clinging
white mist. Now was his opportunity, and, as luck would have it, he
saw the deck steward carrying a tray toward the boat deck.

“I’ll take that,” he said. “Who is it for?”

“It is for the bridge,” said the man, apparently relieved that Bill
had volunteered for the duty. “The officers are to have hot food every
hour.”

Bill went up the companion and put the tray on the deck. The fog was
so thick that from where he stood he could not see the bridge or the
wireless house. There was no time to be lost. His numbed fingers
detached two cups from the dozen with which the tray was laden, he
splashed in the hot coffee, sugared and milked the decoction, and
then, taking the bottle from his pocket, he dropped a liberal dose
into each cup. Taking one in each hand, he groped his way to the
wireless house. The men on duty saw him coming and challenged him.

“The captain sent you a drink,” said Bill.

“It’s about time he did!” growled the man. “What’s the other cup
for--the operator?”

He opened the door of the room.

“Here’s a drink for you, Arthur,” he said, and the muffled figure of
the operator appeared in the doorway and took the cup from Bill’s
hand.

Not waiting to see the effect of the drug, Holbrook hurried back to
where he had left the tray and carried it on to the bridge and into
the chart-house. The bridge was now alive with men; he heard Harvey
Hale cursing loudly the change in the weather, and then:

“… it is only a belt, and anyway, we’re more than fifty miles from
where we arranged to pick up the _Inland_.…”

They were making for a rendezvous. This possibility had not occurred
to Bill. Even as he thought, he heard another of the men speak.

“We’ll have to wait for her, won’t we, captain? She couldn’t keep up
with us; none of these tankers do more than ten knots.”

“She does twenty-five,” said Hale. “The _Thomas Inland_ is one of the
new fast.…” The voice rumbled down unintelligibly, until: “… told
them to rig up a dummy funnel and paint her white.…”

The _Thomas Inland_!

Where had he heard that name? And then in a flash he remembered the
wireless news bulletin that had been posted. The _Escorial_ was to be
met by the stolen tanker! So that was why the gang were so inactive.
The tanker would not carry enough oil to supply the needs of the
_Escorial_ unless.…

Bill almost stopped as the horrible possibility occurred to him. She
would have enough oil to carry the gang and their loot to safety! The
_Escorial_ was to be abandoned--driven into the ice-fields, and the
three thousand souls she carried left to starvation and death, whilst
the _Thomas Inland_ made her innocent way to a port with her booty.

He flew down the ladder, stumbled through the fog towards the wireless
house, and had only to come in sight of the guard to know that the
dope had worked. The man lay, an inert figure, outside the open door
of the caboose.

Bill did not hesitate; lifting him, he dragged him to the side of the
ship, and, balancing the man on the rail, flung him into the dark
waters. This was not the moment to consider the value of human life.
Three thousand people were heading straight for a hideous death. It
mattered little whether one or the other of the gang were drowned or
hanged.

The second man lay sprawled across his desk, and, hoisting him on to
his shoulders, Bill staggered to the rail, and, without one tremor of
regret, flung him into the unseen sea. The cups and saucers followed.
In another second he was in the caboose, his frozen fingers working at
the keys, a headphone clamped to his ears.

As he called his eyes wandered over the papers with which the table
was littered. There were messages from the English Admiralty and from
the American Naval Secretary, calling on all ships to report the
movements of the _Escorial_. Tappity-tap went the key restlessly, and
presently he heard a faint answer, in the code of Cape Cod. He tapped
off the message:


 “_Escorial_ in the hands of gangsters. Position roughly 64 north, 45
 west, heading north. Notify _Sussex_ and _Kent_. S.O.S.”


There was a pause, and then the reply came through:


 “_Sussex_, _Kent_ and three fast American cruisers looking for you.
 Their position 60 north, 46 west. Notifying them.”


Almost as soon as the message finished he picked up another signal. It
was from the _Kent_, obviously addressed to the distant _Sussex_:


 “Have taken message from _Escorial_. She bears north-east by north
 from me. Give me her direction.”


He did not hear the _Sussex_ reply, but after four or five minutes
came the _Kent_ again:


 “Proceeding with all speed. Notify nearest American cruiser.”


Bill took off his headphones with a sense of elation, and at that
moment somebody tried the door of the caboose, and a rough voice
demanded:

“What are you doing in there?”




 CHAPTER LV.
 THE “THOMAS INLAND”

The caboose had three windows, one port, one starboard, and the
other facing the bridge. All, however, were so placed that it was
difficult for anybody outside to look in--for which Bill was truly
grateful.

He climbed up to the port window opposite the door, fumbled for the
fastening screw, and, using all his strength, forced it open. In
another second he was on the deck and running lightly towards the aft
part of the ship. He knew that the companionway was guarded--he could
not afford to take a chance of escaping the vigilant sentinel. To go
past the gymnasium must also lead to detection, for men were on duty
there. Slipping over the rail, he swung himself to the deck below. It
was an eerie experience, hanging suspended there in the mist, and it
required all his courage to swing inward and release his hold, for the
fog was so dense that he could not see where he was landing.

Would Hale suspect the steward who had brought up the tray? He must
risk that too. Making his way to D. deck, he saw Stone for a moment,
and, going along to the cabin which had been allotted to him, he hid
the bottle and went back to wait developments. They were not long in
coming.

Suddenly he heard four short blasts from the steamer’s siren: it was
the signal to muster all hands.

“This is where I become a stowaway or something,” said Bill.

He fell in with the other stewards on the lower promenade deck, and
after half-an-hour’s wait, he saw the towering bulk of Harvey Hale
coming along, scrutinising the line, man by man. He stopped before
Bill.

“You’re the steward who came to the bridge with tea, ain’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bill.

“What were you doing on the boat deck?”

The very question told Holbrook that the new captain did no more than
suspect--if he had known, there would have been no question.

“On the boat deck, sir?” said Bill. “I don’t know what you mean; I
had to go to the boat deck to reach the bridge.”

“Did you come back to the promenade straight away?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The man on watch at the foot of the ladder said you didn’t.”

It was the moment for a bold bluff.

“There was no man at the foot of the ladder when I came down, sir,”
said Bill.

It was a desperate lie, but it succeeded. Hale turned, with a curse,
to his companion.

“That comes of putting a dirty longshoreman on duty!” he swore. “I
know he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there when I came down myself!”

“He was cold,” said the other, his voice trembling. It was evident
that the “officers” were in terror of their brutal commander.

“Cold!” yelled Hale. “He could freeze for an hour, couldn’t he?”

A few minutes after, the muster was dismissed, and Bill went back to
his cabin, a greatly relieved young man. The absence of the wireless
operator and his guard had been discovered.

The ship was now moving dead slow, and once everybody on board felt a
shiver and a jar, whilst at about eleven o’clock that night she must
have touched an iceberg; for a moment the vessel heeled over and Bill
thought that the worst had happened. But there was some justification
for Harvey Hale’s claim that he was the greatest seaman in the world,
for all that happened apparently was the merest graze, and scarcely
bent a plate, and an hour later the ship ran out of the fog.

There was ice everywhere--great masses of hummock ice like floating
islands; bigger bulks that stood up from the sea like white
cathedrals.

By this time Bill guessed, rather than knew, that a vigorous search
had been undertaken to find the men he had thrown overboard. Evidently
something even more serious had happened, for an order came that the
promenade deck was closed to passengers.

The _Escorial_ was now going at full speed, and in the grey light of
midnight Holbrook saw, through the porthole of the Stones’ cabin, that
the sea was now comparatively free from ice.

He snatched a few hours’ sleep, and at five o’clock he was in the “H”
suite sitting-room. Here was the chief danger: Lambert Stone was a
doomed man. Twice in his search for easy wealth had Joshua Laffin been
baffled. The murder of his patron had not brought him the money that
he had every right to expect would accrue to him. His scheme to gain
control of the finances of the Proud Sons of Ragousa had been thwarted
by Pawter. To-day, for the first time in his life, there were untold
millions in his hands, and the insurance of a rich wife, if this, the
most desperate of all his deeds, should fail.

He took along Lord Lowbridge’s coffee, but might have saved himself
the trouble, for Benson had forestalled him, and Clive, wrapped in a
heavy overcoat, was sitting up in bed when Bill went in.

“Benson tells me that the ship is in the hands of a gang. Is that
true, steward?”

“Quite true, sir,” said Bill.

“Good Lord!” An expression of amazement was on Clive’s handsome face.
“It doesn’t seem possible. How far are we from New York now?”

“About three thousand miles,” said Bill. “Is there anything you
require?”

“No, thank you, steward. Have you had any news of Mr. Holbrook?”

Bill had ready a new explanation for his own absence.

“He must have found a warmer cabin--he complained about the cold.”

“Can’t understand what has happened to him.” Clive ruffled his hair
impatiently. “You don’t think he has fallen overboard?”

“That is unlikely, my lord,” said Bill, and got away from the cabin
as soon as he could.

Early in the afternoon, the _Escorial’s_ engines stopped, and Bill saw
that they were taking soundings from the bridge, and apparently these
were satisfactory to Hale, for presently the big port anchor dropped
with a roar.

And now, when the noise of the engines ceased, the perfect stillness
was bewildering. The slightest whisper sounded like the sound of
shouting. Holbrook understood for the first time what explorers meant
when they talked of the “Arctic hush.”

Ice had again appeared; huge bergs were visible on every side. Two
white seals rested on a floe that came slowly past the ship as she lay
at anchor, and one of the stewards told him that, a few hours before
she stopped, the _Escorial_ had passed an enormous iceberg, on which a
bear had been seen.

The cold was deadly, and it was accentuated by the wind that blew from
the north, that presently brought something like a blizzard, which
covered the ship from masts to deck in a coat of powdery snow.

His duty carried him to the purser’s cabin. The stout man was
shivering over his little electric radiator, and cursing the day that
he had left Southampton.

“Another three days’ steaming and we pretty well clear out our supply
of fuel,” he said in a low voice. “Our only chance is to stay
anchored. At any rate, there’s enough oil on board to keep the dynamos
going for two months.”

“At the end of two months what will happen?”

“We shall be frozen in,” said the purser emphatically. “I shouldn’t
be surprised if we didn’t get iced up in a month! I don’t know what
they’re doing: they’re simply cutting their own throats coming here.”

Bill told him of the supply ship and the message he had sent--news
that brought the purser to life.

“It was you, was it? I heard all about it. They lost two men; what
happened to them?”

“They committed suicide,” said Bill coolly. “Mr. Jackson, suppose the
gang abandons us? Would there be enough oil to get us back to the
track of shipping?”

The purser shook his head.

“If there was we couldn’t make it,” he said. “They’ve been all
morning examining the engines with the idea of putting the machinery
out of order. Oh, they’ve been thorough! By the way, the passengers
are rationed for to-morrow--tinned beef and mutton, dried peas and
beans--all fresh meat has been taken for Hale’s men.”

The two days which followed were a nightmare to Bill. On the first of
those, three passengers in the steerage died of cold and exposure, and
on the following day a man in the second class saloon went mad and
attacked his fellow travellers. The shadow of tragedy lay on the ship,
and, looking up at her huge funnels and towering masts, and
visualising the enormous bulk of her, Bill could pinch himself in an
effort to wake from the fearful dream. The thing was so fantastical,
so utterly impossible. Here was a ship, the largest in the world,
stolen more easily than a sneak-thief could take a watch on a
race-track! It was unbelievable.

On the evening of the second day the deck steward came to him in a
state of excitement.

“There’s a ship in sight,” he said.

“A warship?” said Bill, his heart leaping.

The man shook his head.

“No, she looks like a tanker to me.”

Bill’s jaw dropped. He knew, before the ungainly craft came slowly
within a few cables’ length of the liner, that it was the _Thomas
Inland_, and that the supreme hour of danger was at hand.




 CHAPTER LVI.
 HARVEY HALE AND LAFFIN

From the lower promenade deck he saw the ship come to an anchor,
watched the lowering of a boat and the skin-coated crew pull towards
the liner. A gangway had been lowered, and presently a man staggered
inboard and went clumping up the steps on to the deck, being received
by Hale, who took him straight away to the bridge.

The consultation was a long one, and it was nearly nine o’clock before
the captain of the _Thomas Inland_ went back to his ship, and such
passengers whose portholes faced that way saw her get up her anchor
and sidle in towards the liner. She was made fast by midnight, and
Bill waited to see whether his fears were well-founded. If the tanker
passed a pipe aboard to replenish the nearly empty tanks of the
_Escorial_, then Laffin’s plan was something different from that which
he anticipated. But no attempt was made to oil the ship, and, watching
them, Bill saw the forward derricks in action. They were lowering on
to the deck of the tanker the boxes which had been taken from the
purser’s strong-room. Bill waited only long enough to see this, then
went back to Stone.

The American was sitting despondently on a settee, a rug over his
legs, his hands thrust into his greatcoat pockets.

“Where is Betty?” asked Bill. It was not the moment for
conventionality.

“She’s in her cabin--why?”

“I want her to come with me.”

He knocked on the door and Betty came out.

“Put on your coat,” ordered Bill, and, when she had obeyed, he led
her along the alleyway to his own cabin.

He had spent the previous night with an axe and a screwdriver. The
brackets which fastened the wash-stand to the wall had been removed.
He pulled at the piece of furniture and dragged it aside, disclosing a
small, irregularly shaped aperture, heading apparently into a large
linen cupboard, though it was now empty and had not been used that
voyage.

“Stay in this cabin until I tell you to come out. I will lock the door
on you and bring you food. It is absolutely vital that you should not
make your presence known. Should anybody try the door, get into the
linen cupboard and pull the wash-stand to you.”

Before Betty could reply, somebody in the alleyway called Bill by his
assumed name. He hurried out, locking the door and putting the key in
his pocket.

“Where’s Mr. Stone?” It was the purser. “He is wanted at once on the
bridge, and Miss Stone also.”

“I haven’t seen him,” lied Bill. “Maybe he’s down in the saloon or
the drawing-room.”

“Go find him,” said the purser impatiently. “That devil up above is
raising Cain.”

Bill remained in the library long enough to satisfy the purser, and
returned with the message that neither Stone nor his niece could be
seen.

“Go up and tell him yourself,” groaned the purser, and without the
slightest trepidation Bill interviewed the raging Harvey Hale.

He was dumbfounded to discover that at least one member of the party
was a prisoner. Clive Lowbridge sat in the chart-house, a dejected
man, his wrists fastened with a pair of ship’s irons.

“Go down and tell that purser of yours that if he doesn’t produce the
Stones I’ll cut his heart out of him!” yelled Hale.

He had been drinking heavily, and in spite of his boast that liquor
had no effect upon him, his voice was thick and his step unsteady.

“What is this, what is this?” asked a testy voice, and, looking
round, Bill saw Laffin entering the chart-house. He still wore his
gaudy uniform, and though it was mainly covered by a naval greatcoat
he contrived to show the hilt of his sword through a slit in the side
of the garment.

“That is not the way, my friend. I will have these matters done in my
own way, which is naturally the best way. You are speaking of my wife
and her respected relation. Let me send a message to her, a polite
message, and an escort befitting her dignity. You understand, Hale?”

“I don’t understand anything,” growled the man, “except that I want
those people on this bridge and I’m going to get ’em here!”

Dr. Laffin waved a dignified hand.

“You are no longer in control. I, your Commodore, your Grand Master,
the supreme authority of the Twenty-Third Degree.…”

Bill saw Hale bend forward, as though in the act of bowing. Then came
the quick, bright flash of a knife. Twice the man struck, and with a
cough Joshua Laffin, doctor of medicine, fell on to his knees, swayed
for a second, and Hale struck for the third time. The old man went
down, and did not move again.

Thus passed Joshua Laffin, in his sin and his madness.




 CHAPTER LVII.
 WARSHIPS

“Throw it overboard,” said Hale curtly.

The shock of the deed had sobered him; his face was the colour of
putty.

“Step lively, damn you!”

The man leapt at his word. Bill, standing in the chart-house, heard
the click of the sword as it dragged along the deck… there was a loud
splash. It was so horribly matter-of-fact a proceeding that Bill could
not believe that he had witnessed a murder.

“Now, young fellow, get down and tell the purser to come himself, and
to bring with him the Stones, do you hear?”

“I hear,” said Bill steadily.

“You’re the man that was up here the night my two fellows
disappeared?” Hale was looking at him with a new interest through his
half-closed eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Smithers,” said Bill.

“Well, go down, Mr. Blooming Smithers, and come back with the Stones.
I’d like a word with you.”

Holbrook gave a quick glance round; every man of the party was armed.
He could have killed Harvey Hale then and there, but there were too
many for him. He might shoot down three, he calculated coldly, but the
fourth or the fifth would get him.

“Here!” Hale called him back. “I want a wireless operator. Do you
understand radio?”

“No, sir.”

“Understand morse, though, don’t you?”

It dawned upon Bill at that moment that in all probability the captain
of the _Thomas Inland_ had also picked up his message.

“No, sir, I don’t understand morse. Several of the stewards do,
though.”

“Humph!” said Hale, and jerked his head.

He was apparently not satisfied to let Bill go alone, for, looking
round, the reporter saw that he was closely followed by two of Hale’s
subordinates. Despite his apparent coolness, his head was in a whirl.
Joshua Laffin was dead! He met the purser at the foot of the companion
stairway, and gave his message.

“It’s no use, Holbrook,” said the man in a low voice. “I know where
the Stones are. I went into the linen store, looking for a place to
hide, and saw them. They wouldn’t last a minute there. They searched
that place when you disappeared.”

Bill’s heart sank. He ran along the alleyway, opened the door of his
cabin and called the girl and her uncle out.

“I agree with the purser--you’ll be found in the cabin. The only
chance we have is on the boat deck,” he said.

As they walked along the corridor he told the news of Joshua Laffin’s
murder.

“How horrible!” she said in a low voice. “Yet--yet my first
thought----”

He nodded and gripped her arm.

“A couple of Hale’s men are at the companion,” he said. “We shan’t
have another opportunity of talking. I want you to follow me wherever
I go. Have you the pistol?”

She showed him the bag in her hand.

“It is certain to be necessary; I hope it will be effective,” he said
grimly.

He led the way along the deck, Stone and the girl following him, and
the two gangsters bringing up the rear.

“Go ahead,” he said, when they came to the foot of the ladder that
gave to the boat deck.

Stone went first, the girl after, then came Bill, and following him
his two custodians. He reached the head of the steps, and, turning
suddenly, dashed his boot in the chest of the nearest man. He dropped
with a yell, bringing down his companion.

“This way!” shouted Holbrook, and flew across the deck towards the
wireless caboose.

The man on duty at the door whipped a revolver from his pocket, but
before he could press the trigger Holbrook shot him down. In another
instant he was in the cabin, and the new operator did not show fight;
he dropped his gun and put up his hands at the moment of their
entrance.

“Outside,” said Bill tersely, and kicked him on to the deck.

He dragged Betty into the cover of the cabin, and when Stone had
followed, the reporter shut the door and pushed the bolts. With the
butt of his pistol he smashed the three glass windows. He had seen
that, from the wireless room, and standing on the operator’s table, he
could cover both bridges--a fact which one of the gang was to
discover, for incautiously coming into view, Bill dropped him with a
bullet through his knee, and the yell of the wounded man was excellent
propaganda as a deterrent to imitators.

“They’ll try to starve us out, but I don’t think they’ll make any
direct attack. Thank God, there’s no night in these regions--I never
dreamt I should be thankful for that!”

The operator had left behind him on the table two large naval
revolvers, and they made a welcome addition to the armament of the
party. He handed one to Stone.

“Take that and cover the left ladder; I’ll look after the right,”
said Bill. “Shoot anybody you see--you cannot make a mistake.”

“Can I do anything?” asked Betty quietly. “I’m not afraid--look!”
She put out her hand, and to Bill’s amazement it did not tremble.

“For the moment you had better keep out of range. This caboose is made
of steel and ought to resist an ordinary rifle bullet. Our danger is
from the rear, where we cannot see an attack coming.”

The real danger, he discovered, was from the roof, for presently they
heard a patter of feet overhead and the blow of an axe clanging
against the iron roof.

“It would require the skill of Mr. Toby Marsh to make an entrance that
way,” said Bill coolly.

It was queer that he should think of Toby Marsh at that moment, yet
several times that day the man had come to his mind. Was he, with
Laffin, the mysterious force which directed the blow of Harvey Hale’s
knife? For this was clear, that the big man was acting under orders,
and somehow he could not think of Laffin as leader.

The blows on the roof ceased, the footsteps sounded no more; but
presently they came again, dragging something heavy. Suddenly the
nozzle of a hosepipe was thrust in through the broken window and paid
out furiously. Before Bill could gather the pipe and fling it out of
the window there was ample time for the cabin to have been flooded,
but no water came, and he wondered if there had been a blunder
somewhere.

“The pipes are frozen.” It was Stone who supplied the explanation.

“They’ll try smoke next,” said Bill. “I can only pray that they
haven’t a Mills bomb on board.”

She shivered at his cold-bloodedness.

“You said they had taken Clive? What will they do to him?”

“I don’t know. He is a prisoner in the chart-house,” said Bill. “They
will probably use him as either a lever or an ambassador.”

It was a shrewd guess. Some time later, after a long lull, the figure
of Clive appeared at the top of the bridge steps. He was still
handcuffed; the look of bewilderment which Bill had seen on his face
had intensified, so that there was something almost comic in his
embarrassment. Bill felt a little pang of pleasure, in spite of the
seriousness of the situation, that his rival should appear at such a
disadvantage and was instantly ashamed of his meanness.

“Don’t come down. What do you want?” shouted Bill.

From where he stood he could see not only the bridge, but had a good
view beneath the bridge, across to the bow of the anchored _Escorial_,
which was swinging idly in the tide.

“I have a message for you,” shouted Clive, with a dismal attempt at
cheerfulness. “Don’t plug me--I’m doing my best!”

“Tell the others to keep back,” warned Bill, and watched his lordship
descend the ladder with painful slowness.

Presently he stood under the broken window.

“They say that if you’ll surrender, there’ll be no further trouble.
Hale has killed the doctor--you know that? Now he talks about going
back, turning State’s evidence, and handing the ship over to the New
York police authorities.”

“Loud cheers,” said Bill sarcastically. “Do you believe that?”

“I’m blest if I know what to think, Holbrook,” said Clive. “They
threatened to hang me at the yardarm or some other beastly place,
unless I can induce you to do as they wish! They say you can go back
to your cabin and that no further attempt will be made on you.
Naturally they’re anxious about their own skins.”

“I’ll not do it!”

Lowbridge looked round fearfully.

“I’d ask you to let me in, only I’m afraid these devils would shoot
me. They’ve got me covered. Honestly, I believe Hale is scared sick.”

“In which case he can get up his anchor and steam south,” said Bill.
“We can travel just as comfortably in this caboose as we can in the
luxury of suite H.” Then, with a gasp: “Who told you who I was?” he
demanded.

“They know. Personally, I shouldn’t have recognised you. Gosh! if I
ever get out of this I’ll never come to sea again, even if I have to
settle down in America! What shall I tell them?” he asked after a
pause.

“What I said. If he turns the ship south, we go south too, whether
we’re here or in suite H. I don’t trust him, and you’ll be a fool if
you do. Why does he threaten to hang you if he’s square?”

“Because apparently he wants your good word. He seems to have an
inordinate faith in the power of the press----”

Bill’s derisive laughter interrupted him.

“Am I a child?” he said. “I’m sorry if you’re running any risks--I
don’t think you are, Lowbridge, because he’ll not put his threat into
execution. But you must tell him that I’m staying here till we reach
somewhere in the region of 45 degrees north. He has enough oil to
strike the track of steamers.”

The disconsolated Clive returned to the bridge.

“What will they do now? You don’t think Clive is in any danger?”
asked Stone anxiously.

“If they’re serious about hanging him I may change my mind, but for
the moment we stay here.”

The vessel was still swinging. A big iceberg which had been in view
through the port window had disappeared, and a newer and smaller berg
was slowly coming into sight as the great vessel leisurely circled her
anchor. Suddenly Bill, who had been watching the bridge, dropped to
the floor, seized a pair of binoculars that he had seen on a shelf,
and leapt up to the table again.

Far away on that sector of the horizon which was now in view, were
three blurs of smoke, and through the powerful glasses he
distinguished them. He did not know the _Kent_ from the _Sussex_, but
the third vessel with a lattice mast was a United States warship, or
he had never seen one!




 CHAPTER LVIII.
 TOWARD THE FOG

“What is it?” asked Stone.

For answer, Bill beckoned him to the table and handed him the glasses.

Somebody else had seen the ship. He heard Hale roar an order, and in a
few minutes a rattle and quiver as the anchor of the _Escorial_ was
dragged from its bed. The telegraphs were clanging, and presently came
the purr of the turbines as the _Escorial_ went slowly astern.

There were signs of activity also on the _Thomas Inland_. She had not
been anchored, but was lashed fast to the side of her big companion.
As the vessels drew away from one another, the _Thomas Inland_ turned
slowly westward, and, with a bubble of foam above her propeller, began
to push a bigger distance between herself and the great liner.

A stentorian voice hailed her from the bridge.

“Keep close company, Hackett! I may want to oil.…”

Incautiously Hale showed himself for a second at the head of the
ladder. Bill fired, saw the man stagger for a moment, and thought he
was hit. He turned a face grinning with rage to the caboose, shook his
fist and dived suddenly out of sight.

Nearly half-an-hour passed before the _Escorial_ got under way. Bill
was looking at the warships in an agony of apprehension. They did not
seem to be moving, and yet he knew they were nearer than when he had
first sighted them.

As the _Escorial_ turned, they came into view through the port window,
and from the centre ship, which was in fact the _Kent_, a puff of
white smoke crawled lazily. With startling distinctness in that silent
Arctic sea came the boom of her gun. Something struck the water
between the _Thomas Inland_ and the _Escorial_, and sent up a great
geyser of spray.

“No, they’re not firing at us,” said Bill, in answer to the girl’s
whispered question. “They’re ranging, and maybe their idea is to scare
Hale into surrender.”

Gathering speed, the _Escorial_ pounded on, until ahead of them Bill
saw what he thought was land, but which proved to be a mass of
hummocky ice, backed by an irregular formation of isolated bergs.

“He’ll not dare drive through that,” thought Bill, and the next
minute he saw the _Thomas Inland_, which was leading, turn to port.

They were moving towards the warship; Bill wondered why, but now saw
that northward there had appeared an almost impenetrable barrier of
ice.

“Wireless cabin ahoy!” It was Hale’s megaphone roar. “Send a message
to those warships that if they attempt to board the _Escorial_ I will
blow up the ship!”

Bill had almost forgotten the function of the cabin, but this reminded
him. Leaving the girl in his place, at her urgent request, he began to
feel out in the ether for the ships of war, and presently he caught
the signals of the American.

“The captain says that if you approach too closely he will blow up the
ship.”

“Who is that speaking?” came the answer, and Bill gave particulars
about himself and his party. “Is the ship ahead of you the _Thomas
Inland_?” was the next question, and he replied in the affirmative.

“Am signalling tanker that if she does not stop shall destroy her,”
said the American.

Bill, before all things, was a patriot.

“For heaven’s sake don’t!” he rapped the message furiously. “She is
carrying interest on America’s loan to Europe!”

The captain of the American, excellent patriot as he was, had
evidently a soul above money. Again that lazy cloud of smoke from the
warship’s side, a droning whine that rose to a shriek, and the bridge
of the tanker burst into sudden flame, and, when the smoke had cleared
away, the ship was out of control, broadside on, and only Harvey
Hale’s supreme seamanship averted a collision.

Bill rattled the transmitter key surely.

“Tanker hit amidships. Bridge carried away. There may be fire on
board. She is out of control.”

He received a “thank you” from the three warships almost
simultaneously. And now one, which proved to be the _Sussex_, was
moving ahead of her companions, smoke bellowing from her stacks.

“She’s under forced draught,” said Stone, and dodged just in time.

A bullet ripped through the window and splattered against the iron
casting. Bill snatched up his pistol and jumped on to the table, but
the sniper was not visible, and had probably taken advantage of
Stone’s preoccupation.

Nearer and nearer the warship approached, and, examining her through
his glasses, Bill saw that there was no vestige of human life on her
decks. She was cleared for action, four long guns swung menacingly
towards the liner.

Beneath them the deck of the _Escorial_ quivered and trembled. She,
too, was working up to her top speed, and the water curved in two high
waves from her bows. The ticker was chattering furiously. Bill took up
the receiver and listened.

“Is there any danger that captain of the _Escorial_ will carry out
threat to sink vessel?”

Bill thought for a moment, and tapped “Yes.”

“What fuel has she on board?”

“Very little.”

A long silence, and then the _Sussex_ spoke again.

“Will keep you close order. If necessary shall hole _Escorial_
forrard,” was the cold-blooded suggestion.

“And they’ll enjoy doing it!” groaned Bill.

The _Sussex_ was running on a parallel course, edging closer and
closer to the liner. Again the _Sussex_ became inquisitive.

“May I blow away bridge?”

Bill did not wait for the message to finish before he tapped an
emphatic “No.” The bridge was dangerously near to the wireless cabin,
and to him there was only one passenger on the _Escorial_, and that
was Betty.

“Lord Lowbridge prisoner in chart-house,” he added, glad to find an
excuse.

There was a blur of grey on the horizon ahead--fog! Harvey Hale had
seen that patch and was racing towards it with his heart in his mouth.
They had long since left the _Thomas Inland_ astern, and, looking
back, he could see she was being boarded.

“Keep her nose to that fog. Maybe it will be twenty miles thick and
we’ll dodge these brass-bound.…”

Whatever plans he had made were subjected to a slight alteration. He
heard Bill’s voice yelling from the radio house.

“The captain of the _Sussex_ orders you to take a southerly course. If
you enter the fog-bank he will ‘close’ you.”

Harvey Hale looked round at the warship. Despite his own speed, she
was keeping level with him, probably going a little faster, but he had
to economise fuel. He could not hope to reach the fog before the
“closing” occurred, which meant that she would be steaming within a
dozen yards of him, and the one danger he feared at that moment was
the advent of a boarding party.

Nor was the _Sussex_ the only danger; the American war vessel was also
running under forced draught and was overhauling him on his starboard
side. Sandwiched between those two grey devils of the sea, there was
no hope of escape. If the Yankee “closed” there would be ungentle
work.

He made another calculation; the fog was five miles ahead, but less
distant on his starboard side, for he had unconsciously dipped into a
bay, or else the fog had formed whilst he was on the run.

Suddenly the _Escorial_ heeled over, and, turning sharp to port, ran
across the bows of the American vessel, which was now so near that, to
avoid the risk of a collision, her captain had to turn hard to port,
incidentally masking, in the most effective manner, both the objective
and the guns of the _Sussex_. Before the ship could straighten out,
the _Escorial_ had gained a mile. The fog had come out to meet them, a
thin, tenuous mist, that thickened with every yard they travelled,
until the bridge was no longer visible.

“This is where trouble is coming,” said Bill.

It came in an unexpected fashion. He was in the midst of receiving a
message from the warships when the instrument went dead.

“They’ve sent a man up the mast to cut the aerial. I wonder they
hadn’t thought of it before,” said Bill.

It had been cold before, but now it became intense, and this sudden
drop in the thermometer was a serious matter. The fog and the fall in
temperature could only mean the proximity of an iceberg of unusual
size; and when he heard the engine bell clang he knew that Harvey Hale
had also recognised the danger, and was slowing down. What direction
they were taking it was impossible to discover. Nothing was more
certain than that the big man would try to double back on his
pursuers. He had gauged the depth of the fog, and must know that there
was less danger on the northward track than to the south or west, for
he had seen the open sea where the fog now was.

For the moment Holbrook was most concerned with the danger to his own
little party. Harvey Hale would take full advantage of the fog-bank,
and he was not left long in doubt as to this. The crash of a
battering-ram on the door told him that the end was very near. The
second blow gave the attackers their entry. Bill shot down the first
and second men, but before he could fire again, he was borne down by
the rush of unsavoury bodies, and fell, struggling, on the floor of
the cabin.




 CHAPTER LIX.
 THE SIREN

“Don’t hurt the girl!” Harvey’s voice came from the deck outside.
“Hurry it, you awkward swabs!”

“Got him, Captain!” gasped somebody, and Bill, bleeding and bruised,
was hauled out on to the deck.

One of Hale’s ears was covered with a dressing. Bill’s shot had not
gone so wide as he had feared.

“Take him up to the chart-house, where I can see him,” stormed Hale.
“You Yankee swine, I’ll teach you to play monkey tricks with me! Up
with him!”

Bill was dragged up to the bridge and flung into the empty
chart-house.

“Tie his hands,” said Hale. “And, young lady, if you give me any
trouble, you’ll be sorry sooner than you expect. You’ll be sorry
enough, anyway,” he grinned, and leered into her face. “You’re one of
the best pieces I’ve seen for a long time, and old Harvey ain’t so old
that he can’t appreciate a pretty wench when he sees one!”

Where was Clive? Almost as if Bill had spoken his thoughts aloud, Hale
answered him.

“There’s your pal,” he said, and pointed to the inner room, where the
captain had had his quarters.

He dragged open the door and they had a momentary vision of Clive
Lowbridge, lying on a bed, trussed from head to foot, and his face
distorted with anger. Another second and the door was closed.

“You people are going to be useful to me--all of you,” chuckled
Harvey, and, pouring out half a glass of raw whisky, drank it down
with gusto. “If you’ve got any idea that them naval men are going to
help you, get it out of your nuts! There ain’t anything in heaven or
hell that can pull you through _this_ trouble, believe me!”

Soon after he swaggered out on the deck to consult the watch, and when
he came back he was accompanied by three men, who carried bulging
pillow-cases, which they emptied on the table. Bill looked in
amazement. There were ropes of pearls, diamonds, brooches, magnificent
wristlets, and mixed with these, bundle upon bundle of American
currency, thick wads of French francs, and a miscellaneous collection
of gold.

“I guess we’ve lost the money that was on the _Thomas Inland_,” he
said, “but there’s lashings on this ship to keep us all in luxury.”

He opened the captain’s safe and thrust in the jewellery. The money he
stuffed away in one of the pillow-slips.

“And I can tell you this,” he said, addressing Bill, “that there is
another half a million that we got out of the post, and, what’s more,
only three-quarters of the Treasury money went on board the _Inland_.
There’s enough left to make this worth while when we scupper you, and
leave you for these Navy men to pick up.”

There came at this second a dramatic interruption. An oil-covered man
dashed into the cabin, his face streaked blackly.

“What is it, Snell?” asked Hale sharply.

“Captain, the juice has gone----”

Hale clapped his hand over the engineer’s mouth and thrust him
outside, pulling the door closed behind him.

“They’re running short of oil,” said Stone in an exultant whisper.
“That means that he’ll be forced to stop!”

Bill shook his head.

“They have I don’t know how many hundreds of tons in the cargo,” he
said. “The purser told me yesterday. He wondered who was shipping
heavy oil to the United States, and suggested it was a lunatic. It is
only a question of hours before they’ll tap enough to carry them clear
of pursuit.”

“But where can they go now?” asked the girl. “Didn’t you tell me that
the little ship was intended as a sort of lifeboat for them?”

Bill was silent. This fact had not occurred to him. The capture of the
_Thomas Inland_ changed the situation, and Hale’s plans must undergo a
radical transformation. He could no longer abandon the ship in the
Arctic Sea; he must make some port, and make it under the escort of
warships. His alternative was to reach some inhabited coastline and
take to the boats in the night, trusting to reach land with his loot.
Thinking the matter over, Bill decided this was the course that Hale
would take, and that the signal for his leaving the ship would also be
the signal for the destruction of the superfluous members of his
party.

The fog was thinning, but the vessel still went dead slow. An hour
later, they emerged into a sea which to Harvey Hale’s mind, was
beautifully free from warships. The _Escorial_ was now moving
north-west. Hale believed that it was possible that, by
circumnavigating the fog-bank, he could shake off his pursuers and
lead them along enough to make the Canadian coast. His main plan was
to fall in with some small trading vessel, and, on the excuse that he
needed assistance, to board the smaller ship, take possession, and
leaving the _Escorial_ to its fate, make his getaway. That he
contemplated without a qualm the destruction of three thousand lives
was an incredible fact. The rope had been spun that would hang him; he
had no illusions as to the outcome of the adventure if he faced an Old
Bailey jury. No excuse he could offer, no proof that he acted under
the instructions of others, would rescue him from that quick trap in
Pentonville Prison where pirates are hanged, since Execution Dock is
no longer a fashionable place for the dispatch of seafaring
miscreants.

For the time being he grasped at the straw of deliverance which his
luck offered to him. With Stone and the reporter as hostages, he might
yet avoid a conflict which could not fail to end unhappily for
himself. Wholesale death bulked very small by the side of his own
imminent peril.

When Hale returned to his prisoners he was in high spirits, inclined
even to take a good-humoured view of Bill’s bad shooting. And, as
usual, his elation was expressed in a very favourable view of his own
extraordinary qualities.

“There isn’t another man in the world,” he boasted, “who could have
slipped that crowd of sleuths. Did you see what I did, Holbrook?
Turned ninety degrees across their path? And mind you, even if that
skipper hadn’t had the sense to pull up, I’d have got away with it.
Yes, sir, you could search the world for Harvey Hale’s opposite
number, and you’d have to admit that he doesn’t live!”

He pinched Bill’s neck suggestively.

“That’s a good throat for cutting, young fellow. By God, it’s going to
be cut, unless you’re lucky!”

Suddenly he broke into a fit of laughter.

“All you boys and girls ought to be together,” he said mockingly,
and, unlocking the door of the captain’s suite, he invited them into
the room where Clive Lowbridge lay, inert and helpless.

“Good looking fellow, ain’t he? I’ll tell the world he is! Member of
the aristocracy, too!” he gibed. “You can sit here and keep him
company, but I’ll cut the throat of anybody who attempts to unlash
him! Maybe I won’t be so rough with you”--he was ogling
Betty--“because you’re going to be my sweetie!”

He went out through the chart-house, laughing as at a good joke.
Harvey Hale had found a new interest in life. Betty crossed to the bed
and laid her cool hand on the prisoner’s forehead.

“Are you very badly hurt, Clive?” she asked anxiously.

He shook his head.

“No, I’m uncomfortable, and I doubt if it would be wise to loosen
me--yet. Have you a knife, Holbrook?”

Bill shook his head, and exposed his manacled hands.

“He treated me very decently at first, until after he had murdered
poor Laffin,” Clive went on. “It was when I protested against that
awful crime that he had me tied up and put in here. I suppose he’s
shaken off the warships?”

“For the time being,” said Bill, by nature an optimist.

“I don’t think it matters very much whether he has shaken them off or
not,” said Clive. “This devil will not think twice about blowing up
the ship. He says he will burn it to the water’s edge, and I believe
he will.”

Bill was examining his bonds.

“I could loose them for you,” he said.

Clive hesitated.

“I don’t wish you to take any additional risks, but I’d hate to stop
you doing it!”

Bill had an unusual knowledge of knots and hitches, and at the end of
ten minutes’ work he had left Clive’s bonds to all appearance very
much as they were when he had started on them, but with a difference.

“You can practically shake yourself free when you feel like it,” he
said.

He left Stone talking to the prisoner, and walked across to where
Betty was sitting.

“Are you dreadfully frightened?” he asked in a low voice.

She shook her head.

“No, I’m not very frightened. Billy, I have a plan--I wonder if I
could get on to the bridge?”

“Why?” he asked, and then his eyes fell on her bag, which was still
in her hand, and Bill uttered an exclamation.

“Didn’t they take it away from you?” he asked.

“No. Will you have it? I don’t think I could possibly use it.”

She opened the bag and put the little Browning into his hand. Bill was
still wearing his steward’s uniform, though he had stripped the
moustache from his lip at the first opportunity. He thrust the pistol
between his shirt and trousers, and covered the hilt with the bottom
of his brass-buttoned waistcoat. His own bonds were not easily got rid
of. The handcuffs were too small to allow him to slip his hands free,
but there was sufficient play to make the Browning a very practical
assistant if the worst came to the worst.

“I’m not a bit frightened, only I am surprised at myself,” she went
on. “Somehow, this blustering, murdering bully of a man isn’t half as
terrifying as the doctor. Billy, I can’t be sorry he’s dead. I know
it’s unnatural and unwomanly, but he was the real shadow over my life,
and all others seem so insignificant by comparison.”

Turning her head, she saw Clive’s eyes fixed upon hers.

“What are you conspirators discussing?” he asked, and, without
waiting to hear her reply: “I hope they haven’t hurt poor old Benson.
There’s a good servant lost to somebody. Yet if he knew I was going to
be executed by these brutes, he would have no other thought than as to
the most suitable costume for the occasion!”

They had run into the fog again; the speed of the ship had been
reduced, and through the portholes that looked out on to the bridge,
Bill could see the whiteness swirling over the ship’s side.

“Hale won’t like this,” he said. “There’s a chance that he’ll blunder
into the warships.”

Apparently the captain was not greatly concerned, for he appeared soon
after.

“Come out and see the pretty fog, young lady,” he mocked. “You and me
have got to get acquainted!”

He took her arm in his and led her through a doorway. Bill, following
her, saw that she went willingly, and remembered that she had
expressed a wish to go to the bridge. Looking over his shoulder, Hale
saw him.

“I don’t want you!” he bellowed.

“I’m interested in the pretty fog, too,” said Bill coolly.

For a moment the man drew back as though he were going to strike him,
but evidently Hale detected some humour in his remark, and, without
another word, he took the girl’s arm again and they walked out on to
the broad bridge.

“What is that, Captain Hale?” Her voice was surprisingly sweet and
gentle. She pointed to one of the brass telegraphs, and he explained
its function.

“And that is the compass?”

Bill could only listen, aghast, to the change in her tone.

“That is the compass, young lady, by which we’ll get away from the
boys in blue.”

“And what is that?” She pointed to a loosely hanging line.

“That’s the siren--we call that a foghorn. And----”

Suddenly she thrust him back and, leaping up, caught the line and held
on to it. A terrific, thundering shriek of sound broke the stillness.




 CHAPTER LX.
 THE MAN IN CONTROL

With a roar of rage, Hale sprang at her and tried to wrench her
loose, but she clung desperately, and the thunder of the siren drowned
all sound until he pried her fingers away.

“You little devil!” he hissed, his face white with fear.

Bill’s hand closed on the butt of his pistol. If that raised fist had
half descended, Hale would have been a dead man. Instead, he flung her
back against the reporter.

“Go inside,” he said, “and pray to your God that they do not find us!
If they do, it will be hell for yours!”

“I did it, I did it!” she gasped, as Bill led her back, trembling
with excitement, to the inner cabin. “I made up my mind to do it. As
soon as I came on to the bridge I saw the rope, and I guessed that it
was the foghorn. Oh, Billy, they must have heard us if they’re
anywhere near.”

_Zoo-oom!_

The faint sound of a distant siren came to them, and Bill held his
breath.

_Zoo-oom!_

From another direction, and nearer. The warships were also in the fog.

Hale came stamping in, livid with rage, inarticulate. He could only
shake his fist at the calm girl and bubble hideous threats which she
could not hear, even less understand. The ship was going full speed
again. He was careless of bergs or of any other danger. The big man
was forcing the liner through the fog-belt. They passed within a
stone’s throw of a huge white cliff of ice, so close that Bill could
have tossed a ball amidst its fairy-like finials. Faster and faster,
hour after hour, whilst the fog held, and the lookout at the bow
bellowed warnings: “Ice on the left. Ice on the starboard bow.…” The
mighty vessel, like a giant snake, slipped and slid amidst cold death.
And then again the fog melted to the thinnest of mists and vanished
altogether.

“Out of it!” roared Hale exultantly. “Slipped ’em! Harvey Hale did
it!”

To the right of him was fog again. Into that he would penetrate and
lie snug. The fog was a horizon away, but easy going for the
_Escorial_. He calculated he had left his pursuers ten miles in the
rear. They were commanded by naval officers, fearful of injuring their
ships and the court-martial that would follow. They would crawl and
creep from berg to berg, the quartermasters in the chains swinging
their lead continuously. They would not take the risks taken by Harvey
Hale, the finest seaman of all the world, who handled a fifty-thousand
ton liner with the ease that another man might handle a motor-boat,
and had sent her at top speed through ice and fog, with her three
thousand passengers and hands quivering in dread below.

“Harvey Hale did it!” He roared the words.

He had done something that future generations of seamen would talk
about; his great face went purple at the inward contemplation of his
achievement.

And then a voice of terror shouted his name, and he looked back. Three
war vessels abreast were coming out of the fog, and steaming at full
speed!

“We’ve got to run for it,” said Hale. The hand on the telegraph
trembled slightly. “Don’t turn her!” he yelled, as the helmsman
brought the ship over to port. “Give them our stern, damn you! You saw
what they did to the _Inland_--blew her bridge up! Let ’em blow the
ship endways. There’s safety there.” He pointed to the fog ahead, but
it was thin. He saw that long before he reached the first outliers of
mist, and, deep as he could penetrate, he could, looking back, see the
smoke of the pursuing warships. To double now was impossible; he must
keep straight on. “How’s her head?”

“Due south, Captain,” said the individual at the wheel.

He nodded. If he could only reach the night! This cursed, never-ending
daylight, that showed a ship as plainly at midnight as it did at
midday! If he could only reach night! But night lay twenty-four hours
sailing south of the line he traversed. In half that time he might
find a few hours of darkness, and, steaming without lights, evade his
enemy, but half a day was twelve hours.

Bill was right when he said that the man had a supply of fuel on
board--not enough to carry out his new plan, which was to sail from
pole to pole and seek the seclusion of the eternal night in the
Antarctic--a bold scheme, worthy of a Harvey Hale. If that old fool
Laffin had only thought of that! It would have been so simple. The
trade routes of the South Atlantic are few and sparsely used. Clear of
a point west of the Cape of Good Hope and he could strike the southern
night that would give him three months’ security. That idea was
impossible now; he must make for the coast of Canada, and chance
finding a ship that would take him and his party to safety.

He looked back again; the ships were now at his heels, and were
spreading, this time the _Kent_ to his right and the American to his
left. They would call his bluff and close him. He sent for the drunken
mate who had sailed with him before and who was now his chief
assistant.

“Stand by to flood ship,” he said.

“Eh?” The mate frowned. “What do you mean, Harvey, ‘flood ship’?
You’re not going to sink us, are you?”

“Do as I tell you!” snarled Hale. “Is that aerial repaired?”

“Yes.”

“Send a message to the skipper of the Yankee. ‘If you come any nearer
I will flood ship.’”

“You can send any message you like,” said the mate gruffly, “but
you’re not going to flood this damned ship! I’m not a ringleader in
this hold-up, the most I’ll get is five years, and you can bet----”

So far he got when Hale struck him down, and, lifting the dazed figure
from the deck, dashed him against the chart-house.

“You swine!” he hissed. “Will you do as I tell you?” He raised a
fist threateningly.

“All right,” muttered the bruised and bleeding man.

Hale looked back at the _Kent_. From her mainmast floated a small
Union Jack, an ominous sign. It was her battle-flag, flown only by a
British cruiser when she is entering action. She was creeping up to
him on his port. He roared down to the radio house.

“Tell him we’ve got that girl Stone in the chart-house!” he shouted.

_Bang!_

He did not see the splash of the shot, but felt the vessel quiver and
yaw involuntarily.

_Bang!_

The second gun was from the American, who was nearer, and this time
the _Escorial_ staggered.

“Turn a few points starboard,” cried Hale hoarsely.

The quartermaster spun the wheel, but the ship did not answer.

“Rudder’s gone, sir,” he said.

The _Escorial_ was yawing from left to right, and now, taking a
definite course, circled to port, as though it were involuntarily
trying to emulate the earlier manœuvre of its captain. The rudder
gone! Hale’s jaw dropped. He flung open the door of the chart-house
and strode in.

“You people are within three minutes of hell,” he said briefly. “Get
down below, all of you boys.”

He bundled them out one by one, and Bill waited.

“You’ll stay here,” said Hale, pointing his grimy finger at the girl.
“Here you’ll stay, my beauty. And you too,” he looked down at Clive.
“There’s plenty of time yet. We’re going round in a circle and we’ll
continue going round in a circle. They’ve shot away our rudder, but
they can’t get any nearer. If they think I’m going to ring the engines
astern, they’re going to have another guess coming! Get!”

“I’m staying here,” said Bill calmly.

With a scream of anger the man’s fury broke forth. As he leapt, Bill
fired once, but the fury of the attack was such that he was thrown off
his balance before he could pull the trigger for the second time. In
another instant he was on the floor, with the man’s knee on his chest
and the huge hands about his throat. He struggled desperately, and
might have been killed, had not the girl come to his assistance.

“Clive, Clive!” she screamed.

Clive rose to his feet and pulled at his bonds. As he reached the
pistol that had fallen from Bill’s hands, Hale turned and saw him,
and, with a squeal of fear, flew out of the room, slamming the door
behind him.

Bill, manacled as he was, was the first to follow. A man on the bridge
tried to intercept him, but, dodging, he dashed down the ladder to the
boat deck as Hale disappeared from view in the opening of the
companionway. He caught sight of him leaping into the main entrance of
the saloon. A shivering steward saw him and stared aghast.

“Where did he go--the captain?” asked Bill breathlessly.

“Down to D. deck,” said the man.

Before he could frame a question, Bill had jumped to the next landing.
He saw Hale dart into the Stones’ suite and followed. The private
sitting-room was empty. He tried the door of Stone’s room. It opened
and he rushed in. There was nobody there. Betty’s room was locked. He
rattled at the door.

“Open, Hale! The game’s up--open!”

There was no reply. Putting his shoulder to the door, he tried to
burst it in… then suddenly everything went black.…

When he recovered he was lying on the floor. He guessed he was in
Betty’s room, because he smelt the perfume that she used, but the
portholes were heavily covered with curtains, and the room was in
complete darkness. There was another scent, a pungent, familiar odour
that he recognised without being able to define. He put his hand to
his head; it was wet and sticky, the hair matted. When he tried to
move, the pain was excruciating. Somebody had roughly bound his ankles
together and the manacles were still on his wrists.

He was not alone. Though he could hear and see nothing in the
darkness, instinctively he knew that there was somebody in the room
with him. He stretched out his hand and touched a coat. Somebody was
lying in a similar plight--worse perhaps, for when he pressed against
the shoulder of the man with his hands, he did not move.

The ship was still under way, still, he guessed, moving in circles.
And yet, from time to time he could have sworn he heard the boom of
distant guns. Perhaps it was only his imagination.

He must have swooned with weakness and pain, but when he again
recovered consciousness, his first thought was of the ship. The thud
of the turbines came to his ears.

“Still moving,” he said drowsily, and then he heard the door open and
looked up.

The intruder had taken the precaution of masking all the portlights of
the cabin and Holbrook saw nothing, but he knew, by the current of air
that came to his face, that the door had opened.

“Who is it?” he called. “I am Holbrook.”

There was no answer. He heard quiet breathing, and presently a hand
touched his arm, travelled up till it came to his shoulder, and then
to his face. A thrill of horror turned him cold, and he struggled to
throw himself clear, but the hand gripped him. Then he heard a faint
click, the sound of a clasp-knife being opened, and shouted, striking
at the arm of his unknown assailant with a handcuff. But in the
position he was held, his blows had no force and were guarded by the
forearm and the elbow of the assassin. He heard the quick intake of
breath, and guessing that the knife was raised to strike, utilised all
his strength to twist out of the grip.

“Anybody there?”

It was a voice outside.

“Help!” yelled Holbrook.

He heard a queer sound, and the hand dropped away from his throat.

“Be careful, he’s got a knife!” shouted Bill.

“I want you!” It was Bullott’s voice, stern with authority. Bill
heard the sound of a scuffle, a thump of a body against the panelling
of the cabin and the slam of a door.

“Bullott, Bullott,” he called.

“It’s all right, son, where are you?”

“Here.”

The detective came into the cabin, and, stooping, pulled the
half-conscious reporter to his feet.

“There’s somebody else here.”

“I know,” said Bullott’s voice. “At least, I guessed. Here’s a
settee--sit down.”

He pulled aside the heavy curtains, letting in the grey light to the
cabin, and entered Betty’s state-room. Bill heard the curtain rings
drawn aside, and presently Bullott came out, shutting the door
carefully behind him.

“We’re still moving?”

“Yes, we’re steering by the propellers. The warships are standing by,
they think we’ve nearly reached the end of our oil, but they’re wrong.
Did you send them a radio that we were running short?”

“Yes--where is Miss Stone?”

“She’s all right.” There was something in the tone that sent a shiver
down Bill’s spine.

“Where is she?” he asked. “Is she in any harm?”

“She’s in some danger, not very serious.”

“And Stone?”

“They’re together,” was the reassuring reply. “My young friend,
you’ve had a narrow escape.”

Bullott was guiding him along the alleyway to his own cabin. Bill’s
knees were curiously weak and as he walked he reeled from side to side
as though the ship were in a heavy sea. When Bullott got him into the
cabin:

“I think I can take those handcuffs off for you. They’re English
pattern and I have a key somewhere.”

He was as good as his word, and they were not in the cabin a minute
before Bill was free and rubbing his chafed wrists, whilst the
detective bathed the wound.

“Hale, then, is still in control of the ship?”

“No, sir,” was the quiet reply. “Harvey Hale controls nothing just
now. In fact, he’s dead, just now, and if I had to mention----”

“Dead!” said Bill in amazement.

“He was the man lying dead in the cabin with you; didn’t you know
that? I thought you’d have guessed.”

“Then who is in control?”

Inspector Bullott did not reply until he had carefully pinned the
bandage he was putting about the reporter’s head.

“Tolerably thick nut, this of yours, my friend,” he said. “You ought
to have been dead. If I remember rightly, that is the second wound you
have had.”

“Who is in control?” asked Bill again.

“The man in control of this ship at the moment,” said the detective
cheerfully, “is an old friend of yours, one Toby Marsh!”




 CHAPTER LXI.
 BULLOTT MAKES AN ARREST

Bill twisted his head up with an expression of pain.

“Toby Marsh?” he said, not believing his ears.

“That is the gentleman. Very few people are aware of the fact, but it
is nevertheless true, that he is the top man in this ship at this
identical moment.”

“But how--why?” asked Holbrook, his head swimming.

“There are lots of hows, and a considerable number of whys, which I
will explain to you a little later.” He looked at Bill sharply. “I
wonder if it is safe to take you up on the deck?”

He slipped a long-barrelled pistol from his hip.

“Put that in your pocket, and shoot anybody that doesn’t look too
friendly. I guess we’ll risk it!”

“But tell me, Bullott, what you mean by Toby Marsh being in control?
Is he on board? Of course he is! That’s a stupid question to ask, but
I’m all in a maze. Is he with the gang?”

The detective laughed shortly.

“I should say he was!” he said. “Nobody knows as well as I how much
on the inside of that gang Toby Marsh is!”

“Have you seen him?”

“I’ve seen him.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Well, no, I haven’t spoken to him,” said Bullott, “but then, you
see, there are very good reasons why I shouldn’t. I got into a whole
lot of trouble in London through consulting Toby and learnt my
lesson.”

Bill was glad of the arm of his friend, for he was still dizzy and
felt physically sick. The cold Arctic air revived him. They were alone
on the promenade deck--the most daring of the passengers were those
who at that moment were not at their prayers.

“I wouldn’t advise you to go on the boat deck,” said Bullott grimly.
“In fact, you’ll be wise if you stay near the entrance to the social
hall, ready to jump. Somewhere in the bowels of this ship is a fire
emergency control,” he went off at a tangent.

Bill was looking aft. He could see no sign of the pursuing warships,
and, guessing his thoughts, Bullott explained that they were only
visible from the other side.

“And a long way off, I can tell you, my friend,” he said. “You see,
this packet has more stamina than a battleship. They can, by running
under forced draught, keep up with us for a time, but the farther we
go, the bigger the distance between us.”

“What were you talking about--the fire emergency control?”

“All these big ships are fitted with them. There is less danger from
fire in oil-burning ships than in coal-burners, and an easier way of
putting a fire under.”

Bill groaned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want to know, is Miss Stone
safe?”

“Perfectly safe, I think,” said the detective.

“How long can we go on like this?”

“For another three days,” was the surprising reply. “We’ve got that
much oil.”

A man came flying along the deck and Bill recognised the acting
engineer whom he had seen on the bridge earlier that day. He saw him
fly up the ladder to the bridge, and even as he disappeared, the
turbines thudded a little more slowly--slower--slower--and finally
ceased.

“We’ve stopped,” said Bill.

Bullott looked back in the sea and behaved insanely, for he chuckled
and slapped his knee.

“Cross to the other deck,” he said, and led the way through the
saloon opening.

Now the warships were visible. They were coming up at top speed, and
every minute brought them nearer. The _Escorial_ was still under way
and would continue under way for a quarter of an hour, such was the
rate at which she had been travelling. But they were overtaking her at
such a speed that, even as Bill watched, there came across the silent
waters the faint clang of their telegraph. In ten minutes the warships
were alongside, and up over the rails swarmed more sailors, British
and American, than Bill had ever seen before. The first to reach the
deck was a bronzed officer, revolver in hand.

“Where’s the skipper of this little ship?” he asked.

“Forrard, sir. I am Inspector Bullott, of Scotland Yard.”

“Good! I had your lamp signal.”

He caught Bill’s arm and hurried him after the officer.

“But why did we stop?” whispered the reporter.

“The juice went,” was the laconic reply. “Remember that safety valve
I told you about? Well, some guy turned it, and out into the ocean
went three days’ supply of excellent heavy oil.”

“Those are your men, sir,” he broke off, as they reached the bridge
deck.

The tatterdemalion crowd that officered the ship made no resistance.
Bill opened the door of the chart-house and went in. The inner door
was locked, but two brawny naval ratings made short work of the
barrier. The room was full of smoke--a bluish vapour curled up from a
small oriental brazier placed on the floor in the middle of the room.…

Bill Holbrook staggered into the cabin to where, tied to a chair, lay
Betty, unconscious. Stone lay, face downward, on a settee, and on the
bed sprawled Clive.

“Get them out into the air quick,” said Bullott “I’m a fool--I ought
to have known something like this would happen.”

The air in the room was unbreathable; the men choked as they carried
the unconscious figures to the bridge. Bullott alone stayed behind to
open the closed portholes and, lifting the brazier that burnt in the
middle of the room carried it, holding his mouth and nose, to the
bathroom and, flinging it into the bath, let the water run upon it.
Only then did he fly to safety.

“A close call,” he said, “but if I am not mistaken in the dope, we
are in time.”

The girl’s eyelids fluttered, slowly they opened and she stared up
into the strange faces of the naval officers who were overlooking her.
Bullott walked to where the two men lay side by side, already showing
signs of returning consciousness.

“I want that man for murder,” he said, pointing.




 CHAPTER LXII.
 BULLOTT’S STORY

They dragged Clive Lowbridge to his feet, dazed and drunken with the
drug. An ice-wet sponge applied to his face brought him at once to
consciousness.

“Your name is Clive George Lowbridge; you are the ninth Baron
Lowbridge. I am taking you into custody on the charge of wilfully
murdering your cousin, Cyril Francis Lowbridge, by administering
poison.”

“I think you’ll have some difficulty in proving that,” said
Lowbridge, pale as death.

“Not so much as you would imagine. Sergeant Fanaby!”

A man came forward and, seeing him, the face of Clive Lowbridge became
distorted with rage. It was Benson!

“You have been under suspicion since the death of your cousin, and
under observation ever since you took this officer into your
service,” said Inspector Bullott. “He has all the information
necessary to convict you, and I need hardly tell you that I am not
relying only on that charge.”

Heavily ironed, Lowbridge was carried from the deck and transferred
immediately to the British cruiser.

“We have twelve hours to wait before the _Thomas Inland_ comes up to
us, and we can take in enough oil to reach New York,” said Bullott,
“and in the meantime, when it does arrive, the gentleman who spilt our
own supply into the sea, and incidentally brought this ship to a halt,
will not be found amongst the greasers.”

“You told me Toby Marsh was on board and in control of the ship?”

Bullott nodded.

“The man who knows where to find that safety valve, that could empty
the oil tanks in ten minutes, may be said to be in control of any
ship! He was so much in control that he stopped her!”

 * * * * *

“The whole credit for this discovery will naturally come to me. It
should go to Toby Marsh,” said Bullott, when they met that night in
Stone’s chilly cabin, for although they had sufficient oil to run the
dynamos, there was not yet enough to give them heat. “It is perfectly
true that Toby Marsh quarrelled with the doctor, over a fake burglary
which the old man fixed, and which resulted in Toby being sent down to
hard labour. And Toby, being naturally of a secretive and somewhat
romantic disposition, has given up his spare time all these years to
the discovery of the doctor’s character. He knew he was a crook; he
was anxious to know how much of a crook he was.

“Clive Lowbridge was brought up by the doctor, and taught by him to
worship money. Do you remember some copy-book maxims that we
discovered wrapped round the clasp of Isis? Those had been torn
haphazard from an exercise book in which Clive had written, from the
dictation of his tutor, these sentiments, which, at any rate, actuated
Dr. Laffin in his dealings with the world. There was no chance of
Lowbridge succeeding to the title, until the doctor suggested the
removal of the two men who stood in his way. They believed then that
the late Lord Lowbridge was a very rich man; he had been left a
million, but unfortunately he was something of a gambler. The doctor
should have known this, for he had seen him at play, had watched him
squander money at Monte Carlo, and thoroughly knew his weakness.
Probably Laffin thought that he had so much money that there would
still be enough left after his death. As you know, the death of Lord
Lowbridge revealed the truth, which was that he was on the verge of
bankruptcy when death removed him.

“Then there was opened by accident a new prospect for the doctor. He
was crossing Dartmoor one night, when he was held up by two of the
Priors of the Sons of Ragousa, of whose existence he had never heard,
though he was something of a mystic himself and dabbled in the occult.
The news the Priors gave him was that their Head was ill, and he
accompanied them to the Priory, where he found Mr. Leiff Stone,
suffering from an attack of angina pectoris. In his delirium, or in a
moment of confidence, poor Mr. Stone told him of a repeated vision he
had had, that he had seen in a shop window a woman in a green dress
with red hair, sitting before a desk on which was a green jade vase
and one red rose. He must have then told Laffin that it had been
revealed to him that this strange individual had a message for him.
Laffin seized upon the idea and in this way worked round to make the
greatest profit possible that came from his knowledge. The clasp of
Isis, by-the-way, was given to him by Mr. Stone in payment of his
services.

“His first step was, through the Prior, to gain a high office in the
Twenty-Third Degree; and here it seems that he had already formed in
the rough the plan which he had carried out on the _Escorial_, namely,
to seize a ship on its voyage. At any rate, he began to fill the
Twenty-Third Degree with the scum of the seaport towns.

“Remember this, that he had for Lowbridge a genuine affection. He told
him everything, and Lowbridge knew, not only about his adventures at
the Priory and the dream of Leiff Stone, but knew also that Laffin
intended utilising the Twenty-Third Degree for his purpose. Miss
Carew--or as we know her, Miss Stone--was, with the approval of
Lowbridge, chosen to act the part of the Messenger, Laffin’s object
being to obtain possession of the book which held all the secrets of
the Order, the particulars of initiation services, passwords, but,
more especially, the method by which the half-annual argosies were
distributed. That he succeeded, we know. That night, after the book
was in Laffin’s possession, Mr. Stone was killed.”

Bill’s hand tightened on the girl’s, but she did not flinch.

“The method I do not know. We shall probably discover that aconitine
was the agent employed. Now there was one man in whom the Grand Prior
reposed implicit confidence--that was Brother John Flanagan, and he
was evidently worried over his friend’s delusion about the woman in
the green dress, for when he learnt from the Grand Prior that the
messenger had been seen and the message received, he came to London to
pursue his investigations. Lowbridge shadowed him, and shot him down
in the street, because he thought that Miss Stone had told him much
more than she really had. After the Grand Prior’s death, Lowbridge
took his place.”

“Not Laffin?” interrupted the astounded Holbrook.

Bullott shook his head.

“No, sir, the new Grand Prior was Lowbridge. The rest of that story
you know. The unsuccessful attempt of these scoundrels to induce Mr.
Pawter to make a fake draw was nearly followed by Clive Lowbridge’s
arrest. He escaped, however, with Laffin, his assistant, and was
dropped by Laffin at Taunton.

“Toby Marsh had followed Laffin to Bath, whence he took a car to
Devonshire and missed him. He was out in the morning early, watching
the Bath-Bristol road, when he saw the doctor’s car approaching, and
with his customary impertinence, held it up. The doctor was furious;
he would have made Harvey Hale, who was driving the machine, give our
burglar friend a very unpleasant time, but Toby was well armed, and at
last prevailed upon the doctor to let him travel with him to Bath, as
he had something important to say.

“Toby suspected Lowbridge. The discovery that Lowbridge was not in the
car was something of a shock to him. His object in travelling at all
was to trap the doctor into an admission that Lowbridge had just left
him, and in this he succeeded, for, like most super-clever men, Laffin
was childlike in some respects.

“Toby already knew a great deal, having installed a microphone in
Laffin’s private room, and gradually there came into his possession an
almost complete story of what was going to happen on the steamship
_Escorial_. But he wasn’t satisfied that he was right, and in his
furtive way he decided upon securing a job in the engine-room of the
ship. He told me about this later--in fact, a few days before I sailed
he revealed as much of the story as he thought it was wise for me to
know.

“The point I would make is this, that the leader of the gang, the
prime mover, the brain behind every new development, was Clive
Lowbridge. He had doomed Laffin from the moment he learnt that the
doctor had married his ward, and the fact that it was a mere act of
precaution on the part of Laffin made no difference. It was humanly
impossible that that vain, half-mad old man should ever come through
this voyage alive.

“Scotland Yard suspected Lowbridge, and at a very early stage had put
one of their most capable officers in his service. The man called
Benson, is, as you know, a detective, who will probably be promoted
for the part he has played, before he reaches England.

“After the book was secured, it became again necessary to remove Miss
Stone. She had remembered her journey to Devonshire and the
transference of the book to her, and that was fatal to their schemes.
The mere possibility that she would tell the story to the detective
filled them with apprehension, and they determined to remove her
without delay. She called at Lowbridge’s flat for tea. Lowbridge
distracted her attention and put a very quickly acting dope into the
cup and was observed by Benson, who changed the cups when his back was
turned, with the result that it was Lowbridge who found himself under
the influence of the drug.

“I forget the circumstances now,” said Bullott, “but I am under the
impression that he sent Benson out to get some newspapers, believing
that the action of the drug was so quick that the girl would be
unconscious and smuggled away into his room before the servant
returned, when he would find a further excuse for keeping him out of
the way for the rest of the evening.

“The greatest shock that Lowbridge had was to learn that a warrant had
been issued for Laffin’s arrest on a charge of murdering his uncle.
Then, indeed, he knew that the game was nearly up, and that unless he
silenced the doctor he could not escape arrest and the scaffold. Mr.
Stone offered him the opportunity of going to America on the
_Escorial_. I need hardly say that he would have been on the
_Escorial_ in any circumstances, for the gang had decided, after the
narrow squeak which they had at the hands of Tinker Lane, that no time
should be lost. They were, however, in some doubt as to when the
British Treasury would ship the interest on the American debt, and
this they learnt through La Florette, the dancer. Had it not been
shipped by the _Escorial_ you may be certain they would have found
some reason for postponing, not only their own departure, but the
departure of Mr. and Miss Stone.

“I saw my chief at Scotland Yard, put as many facts before him as I
knew, and received permission to sail on this ship, although he
thought that in all probability a very credulous and inexperienced
police officer had heard and believed a fairy story.

“I don’t think there is very much more to be told. Toby Marsh was on
the ship. I saw him the first day, I spent forty-eight hot hours in
his company, and when the Twenty-Third Degree showed their hand, he
was a tower of strength not only to me but to the law. Toby rigged up
a signal lamp aft, which kept us in touch with the warship after the
wireless was in the hands of Lowbridge and his men.”

“Who killed Hale?”

“Lowbridge. When Hale saw that the man he had double-crossed was free,
he ran for his life. The taking prisoner of Lowbridge was camouflage
to protect him if things went wrong. It was an excuse for his being on
the bridge to direct operations at a critical moment, without
appearing to be a member of the gang. But Hale, who was in fear of
him, took advantage of his helplessness to secure him still further.
The prisoner waited only long enough to give Hale a chance of settling
with our young friend, then he chased both down to the cabin. It was
he who struck down Holbrook. Afterwards, he decided that Holbrook
alive was a danger and came down to finish him. His plan throughout
had been in the event of failure, to end life pleasantly. The poison
pastilles which were burning in the captain’s cabin when we broke in,
would ordinarily have killed everybody in the room in a few
minutes--Lowbridge’s luck was out to the last!”

 * * * * * * *

Eight days later, escorted by a fleet of small craft, the
much-travelled U.S.S. _Escorial_ came slowly into New York Harbour,
and Betty Stone stood, a little overwhelmed by the most wonderful
skyline in the world.

Bullott had gone back to England on the _Kent_, and with him his chief
witness, Toby Marsh. Bill had sworn many solemn oaths that he would
follow by the first available mail steamer.

“So this is America, Billy?” she said with a half-smile.

“It is New York,” said Bill, “which isn’t exactly the same thing,
though there are many who share your illusion. It is of it, but not
it!”

His arm was in hers as they leaned on the rail. Mr. Stone looked over
his glasses at them for a moment and returned to a study of the early
editions which had come out on the pilot boat.

“You must show me the sights, Billy, before we go up to Mr. Stone’s
camp, and you must coach me in other things. What is the chief
advantage of being an American citizen?”

“There are so many I can’t think of them,” said Bill, “but the first
that occurs to me is the facility for rapid marriage. And if you’ll
let me explain that system to you thoroughly, I’ll surely be the
proudest son that the ships of Ragousa ever sent forth in search of
treasure!”

 THE END




 ENDNOTES

[1] _Flattie_] London thieves’ _argot_ for uniformed policeman.

[2] _Putting the black_] Blackmail.




 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

The John Long, Ltd. edition (London, 1927) was consulted for some of
the changes listed below.

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. fog-belt/fog belt,
stateroom/state-room, water-bottles/water bottles) have been
preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Convert footnotes to endnotes.

Add chapter numbering.

Punctuation: fix some quotation mark pairings/nestings, etc.

Change four instances of _Bullot_ to _Bullott_.

[Chapter V]

Change “he is an American, born in _Drayton_, Ohio” to _Dayton_.

[Chapter XXVI]

“that her father was _Lieff_ Stone” to _Leiff_.

[Chapter XLI]

“She _noded_ vigorously” to _nodded_.

[Chapter XLIII]

“the purser himself sleeps in a _berch_ which covers the door” to
_berth_.

[Chapter XLV]

“to comply with the wishes of the District _Atney_” to _Attorney_.

[Chapter XLVII]

“On the the opposite side was the door which opened into” delete
the redundant _the_.

[Chapter XLVIII]

“if we keep these _pistol_ until we reach port” to _pistols_.

[Chapter LVIII]

“The Sussex was running on a parallel course, edging closer” italicize
_Sussex_.

“They had long since left the Thomas _Island_ astern” to _Inland_.

[Chapter LIX]

“You can _practcially_ shake yourself free when you feel like it” to
_practically_.

“he had stripped the moustache from his _lips_” to _lip_.

 [End of text]






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