My duty, both towards my host and towards the guests whose jewellery had been stolen by that silent-footed, expert little thief, was to raise the alarm, and hand her over to the police.
Yet so pitiful was her appeal, so tragic the story she had briefly related to me, so earnest her promise never to offend again, that I confess I could not bring myself to commit her to prison.
I saw that she was but the unwilling cat's-paw of the most dangerous criminal in Europe. Therefore, I gently assisted her to rise to her feet and began to further question her.
In confidence she told me her address in Paris—a flat in the Boulevard Pereire—and then, after nearly half an hour's further conversation, I said—
"Very well, Lola. You shall leave here, and I hope to see you in Paris very shortly. I hope, too, that you will succeed in breaking away from your uncle and his associates and so have a chance to live a life of honesty."
"Ah!" she sighed, gripping my hand with heartfelt thanks, as she turned to creep from the room, and down the stairs. "Ah! If I could! If I only could. Au revoir, M'sieur. You are indeed generous. I—I owe my life to you—au revoir!"
And, then? Well, she had slipped noiselessly down the winding stair, while I had taken the pearl necklace and replaced it in the room of Mrs. Forbes Wilson.
Imagine the consternation next morning, when it was discovered that burglars had entered the place, and had got clean away with jewellery worth in all about thirty thousand pounds.
I watched the investigations made by the police, who were summoned from Dumfries by telephone.
But I remained silent, and kept the secret of little Lola Sorel to myself.
And here she was, once again—standing before me!
CHAPTER XIV WHEREIN CONFESSION IS MADE
"Well, Lola," I said at last, still holding her little hand in mine, "and why cannot you reveal to me the truth regarding the mystery of the death of Edward Craig?"
"For a very good reason—because I do not myself know the exact circumstances," was her prompt response, dropping into French. "I know that you have made an investigation. What have you discovered?"
"If you will be frank with me," I said, also in French, "I will be equally frank with you."
"But, have I not always been frank?" she protested. "Have I not always told you the truth, ever since that night in Scotland when you trapped me in your room. Don't you remember?"
"Yes," I replied in a low voice. "I remember, alas! too well. You promised in return for your liberty that you would break away from your uncle."
"Ah, I did—but I have been utterly unable, M'sieur Vidal," she cried quickly in her broken English. "You don't know how much I have suffered this past year—how terrible is my present position," she added in a tone of poignant bitterness.
"Yes, I quite understand and sympathize with you," I said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it, while she sat back in the big old-fashioned horse-hair arm-chair. "For weeks I have been endeavouring to find you—after you came to Cromer to call upon me. You have left the Boulevard Pereire."
"Yes. I have been travelling constantly of late."
"After the affair of the jeweller, Benoy—eh? Where were you at that time?"
"In Marseilles, awaiting my uncle. We crossed to Algiers together. Thence we went along to Alexandria, and on to Cairo, where we met our friends."
"It was a dastardly business. I read of it in the Matin," I said.
"Brutal—horrible!" declared the girl. "But is not my uncle an inhuman brute—a fearless, desperate man, who carries out, with utter disregard of human life, the amazing plots which are formed by one who is the master of all the criminal arts."
"Then he is not the prime mover of all these ingenious thefts?" I exclaimed in some surprise, for I had always believed Jules Jeanjean to be the head of that international band.
"No. He acts under the direction of another, a man of amazing ingenuity and colossal intellect. It is he who cleverly investigates, and gains knowledge of those who possess rare jewels; he who watches craftily for opportunities, who so carefully plans the coups, and who afterwards arranges for the stones to be re-cut in Antwerp or Amsterdam."
"Who is he?" I asked eagerly. "You may tell me in confidence. I will not betray your secret."
"He poses as a dealer in precious stones in London."
"In London?"
"Yes. He has an office in Hatton Garden, and is believed by other dealers in precious stones to be a most respectable member of that select little coterie that deals in gems."
"What is his name?"
The girl was silent for a few seconds. Then she said—
"In Cromer he has been known under the name of Vernon Gregory."
"Gregory!" I gasped in astonishment. "What, to that quiet old man is due the conception of all these great and daring robberies committed by Jules Jeanjean?"
"Yes. My uncle acts upon plans and information which the old man supplies," Lola replied. "Being in the trade, the crafty old fellow knows in whose hands lie the most valuable stones, and then lays his cunningly-prepared plans accordingly—plans that my uncle desperately carries out to the very letter."
This statement much surprised me, for I had always regarded Jeanjean as the instigator of the plots. But now, it appeared, old Gregory was the head of Europe's most dangerous association of criminals.
"Then the jewels found in Gregory's rooms at Cromer were all stolen property?"
"Yes. We were surprised that the police did not discover the real owners," Lola replied. "The greater part of the jewels were taken from the castle of the Grand Duke Alexander of Russia, just outside Kiev, about nine months ago."
"By you?" I asked with a grim smile.
"Not all. Some," admitted the girl with a light laugh. Then she continued: "We expected that when the old gentleman made such a hurried flight from Cromer, the police would recognize the property from the circulated description. But, as they did not, Uncle determined to regain possession of it—which he did."
"Who aided him?"
"Egisto—a man who is generally known as Egisto Bertini."
"The man who rode the motor-cycle?"
She nodded.
"And you assisted," I said. "Why did you leave your shoe behind?"
"By accident. I thought I heard some of the occupants of the house stirring, so fled without having an opportunity of recovering it. I suppose it has puzzled the local police—eh?" she laughed merrily.
"It did. You were all very clever, and my man, Rayner, was rendered insensible."
"Because he was a trifle too inquisitive. He was watching, and did not know that my uncle, in such expeditions, has eyes in the back of his head," she answered. "It was fortunate for him that he was not killed outright, for, as you know, my uncle always, alas! believes in the old maxim that dead men tell no tales."
"The assassin!" I cried in fierce anger. "He will have many crimes to answer for when at last the police lay hands upon him."
"He will never be taken alive," she said. "He will denounce me, and then kill himself. That is what he constantly threatens."
"And because of that you fear to hold aloof and defy him?" I asked. "You live in constant terror, Lola."
"Yes. How can I act—how can I escape them? Advise me," she urged, her face pale and intensely in earnest.
I hesitated. It was certainly a difficult matter upon which to give advice. The pretty girl before me had for several years been the unwilling tool of that scoundrelly gang of bandits, whose organization was so perfect that they were never arrested, nor was any of their booty ever traced.
The four or five men acting under the direction of the master-mind of old Gregory were, in private life, all of them affluent and respected citizens, either in England or in France, while Jules Jeanjean, I afterwards learned, occupied a big white villa overlooking the blue sea three miles out of Algiers. It was a place with wonderful gardens filled with high date-palms and brilliant tropical flowers. There, in his hours of retirement, Jules Jeanjean lived amid the most artistic and luxurious surroundings, with many servants, and a couple of motor-cars, devoting himself to experiments in wireless telegraphy, having fitted up a powerful station for both receiving and transmitting.
The science of wireless telegraphy was indeed his chief hobby, and he spent many hours in listening to the messages from Pold, Poldhu, Clifden, Soller, Paris, Port Said, or Norddeich on the North Sea, in communicating with ships in the Mediterranean, the Adriatic, the Levant, or on the Atlantic.
I was wondering how to advise my little friend. Ever since our first meeting my heart had been full of sympathy and compassion for her, so frail seemed her frame, so tragic her life, and so fettered did she seem to that disreputable gang. Yet, had she not pointed out to me, on the several occasions on which we had met in Paris, the impossibility of breaking the bonds which bound her to that detestable life? Indeed she had, more than once, declared our meetings to be filled with peril for myself.
Her uncle knew me by repute as an investigator of crime, and if he ever suspected me of prying into any affair in which he might be concerned, then my life would most certainly be in jeopardy. Jules Jeanjean never did things by halves. It was, I found, for that reason she had now sought me—to beseech me to relinquish my efforts to fathom the mystery of the death of Edward Craig.
"Do heed what I say, M'sieur Vidal," she exclaimed with deep earnestness. "My uncle knows that you are still in Cromer, and that you have been investigating. In Algiers, a fortnight ago, he mentioned it to me, and declared that very shortly you would cease to trouble him."
"He intends foul play—eh?" I remarked with a grim smile, lighting another cigarette.
"He means mischief," she assured me. "He knows, too well, of your success in other cases in which you have interested yourself," she remarked quickly. "And he fears—fears lest you may discover the secret of the young man's death."
"And if I do?" I asked, looking straight into her face.
"He does not intend that you shall," she replied very earnestly, adding: "Ah! M'sieur Vidal, do heed my words—I beg you. Be warned by me!"
"But, why?" I queried. "I am not afraid of Jules Jeanjean. I have never done him an evil turn. Therefore, why should he conspire to take my life? Besides, I already know of his connexion with the Cromer mystery, the Benoy affair, and others. Could I not easily have sent a telegram to the Prefecture of Police in Paris, when I recognized him in Cromer? But I did not."
"Why?"
"For two reasons. First, I wished to stand aside and watch, and, secondly, I feared to betray him for your sake, Lola."
"Ah!" she exclaimed. "But you are always so generous. You know quite well that he already believes that I have told you the truth. Therefore, he suspects us both and is determined to put an end to your inquisitiveness."
"Unless I act swiftly—eh?" I suggested.
"But think—what would then become of me?" she exclaimed, her eyes open in quick alarm.
"I can't see what you really have to fear," I said. "It is true, Lola, that you live, like your friends, by dishonest methods, but have you not been forced into it by your uncle? Even if you were arrested, the law would treat you with the greatest leniency. Indeed, if necessary, I would come forward and tell the Court all I have known and discovered concerning the baneful influence which has been exercised upon you by the man Jeanjean."
She shook her head mournfully.
"Alas! That would be of no avail," she declared in a low, strained voice.
"Why?"
"Because—because, ah!—you do not know the truth," she faltered, her face pale to the lips.
"Cannot you explain it to me?" I asked, bending down to her, and placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder.
I felt her shudder beneath my touch, while her big blue eyes were downcast—downcast in shame.
"No. I cannot explain," she replied. "If you knew, M'sieur Vidal, how horrible, how terrible all this is for me, you would not press your question."
"But I do—in your interests," I said with deep earnestness. "I want to help you to escape from these scoundrels—I want to stand as your friend."
"My friend!" she exclaimed blankly. "My friend—ah! that you can never be."
"Why not?"
"You would not wish to cultivate my acquaintance further, M'sieur Vidal, if—if you were aware of the actual truth. Besides, this friendship which you have shown to me may, in itself, prove fatal to you. If you do not exercise the greatest precaution, your reward for saving me, as you did that night at Balmaclellan, will be death!"
"You are apprehensive on my account?" I asked, wondering whether she were really in earnest—or whether beneath her strange warning there lay some subtle motive.
"Yes," was her frank response. "Take great care, or death will come to you at a moment when you least expect it."
For an instant I was silent. Her warning was truly a curious and disconcerting one, for I knew the dangerous character of Jules Jeanjean. That if he threatened, he meant action.
"I do not care for myself, Lola," I said at last. "I am thinking how I can protect you, and rescue you from the hands of these unscrupulous men."
"You cannot," she declared, with a hard, fixed look of desperation. "No, only be careful of yourself, and, at the same time, dismiss me from your thoughts. I—I am unworthy of your regard," she murmured, her voice choked by a sob. "Alas, entirely unworthy!"
"No, no," I urged. "I will not allow you to speak like that, Lola. Ever since you entered my room, on that well-remembered night in Scotland, I have wondered how best I could assist you to lead an honest life; how I could——"
"I can accept no further assistance from you, M'sieur Vidal," she interposed, in a quivering voice. "I repeat that I am utterly unworthy," she cried, and shivered with despair, as she stood erect before me. "And—and—if you only knew the truth—the terrible truth of the past—you would at once, I know, turn and discard me—nay, you would probably ring for the waiter and hand me over to the police without either compunction or regret."
And the girl, known as "The Nightingale," stood before me, her face white and hard, her eyes with a strange light in them, staring straight before her, her breast heaving and falling with emotion which she was trying in vain to suppress.
CHAPTER XV CONFIRMS CERTAIN SUSPICIONS
For yet another hour we sat together, but Lola would reveal nothing further.
She only repeated that serious warning, urging me to abandon this investigation of the strange affair at Cromer.
She refused to tell me the name under which old Gregory was known in Hatton Garden, and she likewise firmly declined to give me any information concerning the curious code which had been found in Gregory's room. Indeed, she affected ignorance of it, as well as of the mysterious spot in Ealing "where the two C's meet."
"My uncle is in Antwerp," she told me in reply to a question. "I join him to-morrow, and then we go travelling—where, I have no idea. But you know how erratic and sudden our movements necessarily are. The master usually meets my uncle in Antwerp, going there regularly in the guise of a diamond merchant."
"And you will not tell me the master's real name?" I asked persuasively.
"I am not allowed. If you discover it for yourself, then I shall not be to blame," she said, with a meaning smile. "But do, I beg of you, give up the search, M'sieu' Vidal. It can only end fatally if you still persist."
"You have warned me, Lola, and I thank you sincerely for doing so, but I shall continue to act as I have begun."
"At your own peril—a deadly peril!" she ejaculated, with an apprehensive look.
"I must accept the risk," I said quietly. "And I intend to still stand your friend, Lola."
"But you must not, you cannot!" she protested. "Of course I most deeply appreciate all that you have done for me—and how generous you have been, knowing that I am, alas! what I am. But I will not allow you to risk your life further on my account."
"That is really my own affair."
"No. It is mine. I am here to-day, in secret, solely to warn you—to ask you—to give up this inquiry, and allow the matter to rest a mystery," she protested. "Will you not do this for my sake?" she pleaded.
For a few seconds I paused, smiling at her. Then I replied—
"No. I cannot promise that. Young Craig was foully murdered, of that I am confident, and I intend to unravel the mystery."
"Even though it costs you your life?" she asked slowly.
Why, I wondered, was she so frantically anxious for me to abandon the inquiry? Was it really because she feared that her uncle might attempt to rid himself of me, or had she some other hidden motive?
The expression upon her sweet face had altered. It was eager and apprehensive—a curious look, such as I had never witnessed there before.
Deeply in earnest, she was persuading me, with all the arts of which she, as a woman, was capable to give up the investigation—why?
My refusal evidently caused her the greatest anxiety—even deadly fear. She would, however, reveal nothing more to me. Therefore, I told her point-blank that I would make her no promise.
"But you will think over my words," she said earnestly. "You will be forewarned of the evil that is intended!"
"If there is evil, then I will combat it," I replied briefly. "My first concern is yourself, Lola. Do you remember our confidential talks when we strolled together in the Bois—when you told me all your troubles, and your fears?"
"Yes," she replied in a strange, dreary voice. "But—but, I did not tell you all. You do not know," she added in a whisper.
"Tell me all," I urged. "I know you are—well, let us say it quite plainly—a thief."
"Ah! If I were only that, I might dare to look you in the face—to crave your sympathy—your interest—your generosity once again. But I cannot. No! I cannot," and she burst into tears.
"Are we not friends?" I queried. "And between friends surely there may be confidences."
"To a certain degree, yes. But there is a limit even to confidences between friends," was her slow, thoughtful reply, as she dried her eyes with a little wisp of lace.
I was disappointed. I had fully expected to obtain from her some clue which might lead to a solution of the mystery of Craig's death. But she was obdurate.
"Lola," I said, taking her trembling hand again, "I wish to tell you something."
"Well, what is it?" she asked.
"Simply this. I think I ought to tell you that, near that seat on the cliff at Cromer, where Craig was found, there was discovered a clear print of a lady's shoe," and I watched her countenance narrowly.
Her face went paler in an instant, and in her eyes showed a quick look of terror. But in a second she had recovered herself, and said—
"That is interesting. Do you think that its presence there gives any clue to the assassin?"
"I don't know," was my reply. I stood before her in wonder. Her perfect sang-froid was truly amazing. "But," I went on, "curiously enough, the same lady's shoe was found in Beacon House, after Gregory's property had been carried off. It fitted exactly the imprint in the sand near the seat."
The only sign that her mind was perturbed by my knowledge was a slight twitching at the corners of her pretty mouth. Yes, she preserved an astounding calm.
"That is curious," she remarked with unconcern.
"Very," I declared, still gazing fixedly into her white face. "And can you tell me nothing further regarding this affair?" I asked, bending to her, and speaking in a whisper.
She shook her head.
I did not suspect—nay, I could not bring myself to believe—that Edward Craig had fallen by her hand. Yet the facts were strange—amazingly strange—and her demeanour was stranger still.
We had tea together. She poured it out, and handed it to me daintily, with a sweet smile upon her lips. Then after a further chat, she drew on her long gloves, settled her skirts and prepared to leave.
"A letter addressed to the Poste Restante at Versailles will always find me," she said, in reply to my request for an address. "I use the name Elise Leblanc."
I made a rapid note of it upon my shirt-cuff, and having paid the bill, we descended, and walked together, through the busy streets of Norwich, to the Thorpe Station, where I saw her into the evening express for London.
"Au revoir, M'sieu' Vidal," she said, as she held my hand, before entering the first-class compartment. "Do heed my warning, I beg of you. Do not further imperil yourself. Will you?"
"I cannot promise," I replied with a smile.
"But you must not persist—or something will most surely happen," she declared. "Au revoir! If we meet again it must be in the strictest secrecy. My uncle must never know."
"Au revoir!" I said as the porter closed the door, and next moment the train moved off.
I saw her face smiling, and a white-gloved hand waving at the window, and then "The Nightingale" had gone.
A fortnight went by. I had packed my traps, and leaving Cromer, returned to my rooms in London, and then crossed to Paris, where I spent a week in close, anxious inquiry.
Paris in August is given over to the Cookites and provincials, and most of my friends were absent.
The Prefecture of Police was, however, the chief centre of my sphere of operations, for in that sombre room, with its large, littered writing-table, its telephones, its green-painted walls, and green-baize covered door, the private cabinet of my friend Henri Jonet—the famous Chief Inspector of the Sûreté—I sat on several occasions discussing the activity of Jeanjean and his clever gang.
Jonet was a sharp-featured, clean-shaven man of about forty-five, short and slightly stout, with a pair of merry dark eyes, his hair carefully brushed and trousers always well creased. He was something of a dandy in private life, even though he so often assumed various disguises, passing very frequently as a camelot, or a respectable workman. Of his successes in detection of crime all the world knew.
Next to the Chef de la Sûreté, Chief Inspector Jonet was the most famous police official in Paris, or even in France. In the course of the past few years he had many times dealt unsuccessfully with crimes in which the amazing Jules Jeanjean had been implicated.
I had on many occasions assisted him in his investigations into other matters, and, therefore, on the sultry afternoon, when I called and presented my card, I was shown up immediately into his private bureau—that dismal and rather depressing room, which I so well remembered.
We sat smoking together for a long time before I approached the subject upon which I had called to consult him.
He sat back in his chair enjoying the excellent Bogdanoff cigarette, a fellow to which he had handed to me, and recalling a strange affair that, a year ago, had occupied us both—a theft of bonds from a private bank in the Boulevard Haussmann.
Outside, the afternoon was blazing hot, therefore the green sun-shutters were closed, and the room was in semi-darkness. Jonet's big writing-table was piled with reports and correspondence, as well as one or two recently-arrived photographs of persons wanted by the police authorities of other European countries.
Now and then the telephone buzzed, and he would reply, and give instructions in a quick, sharp voice. Then he turned to me again and continued our conversation.
"The Benoy affair in March last was a sensational one—the murder of the jeweller while in his motor-car in the Forest of Fontainebleau—you remember," I remarked presently in French, leaning back in my chair and puffing at my cigarette. "You made no arrest, did you?"
"Yes, several. But we didn't get the culprits," he replied with a dry smile. "It was our friend Jules Jeanjean again, without a doubt. But he and his accomplices got clean away in the stolen car. It was found two days later a mile out of Maçon, painted grey, and bearing another number. The bandits evidently took train."
"Where to?"
"Who knows? Back to Paris, perhaps," was his reply, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "Yet, though we made a close search, we found no trace whatever of the interesting Jules. Sapristí! I only wish I could lay hands upon him. He is undoubtedly the most daring and dangerous criminal in the whole of Europe," Jonet went on. "Of late we have had reports of his doings from Germany and Russia, but he always escapes. A big jewel robbery in Petersburg is his latest clever exploit. Yet how he disposes of his booty always puzzles me. He must get rid of it somewhere, and yet we never find any trace of it."
I said nothing. From his words I saw how utterly ignorant even Jonet was of the truth, and how little he suspected the actual fact that Jeanjean was not the originator of those ingenious crimes but merely the instrument of another and a master-brain.
The great police official drew a long sigh, and expressed wonder as to whether the elusive jewel-thief and assassin would ever fall into the hands of justice.
"At present he seems to bear quite a charmed life," he declared with a smile. "He openly defies us each time—sometimes even going the length of writing us an insulting letter, denouncing us as incompetent and heaping ridicule upon the whole department of the Sûreté. It is that which makes my officers so intensely keen to capture him."
"I fear you will never do so," I remarked.
"Why?"
"Because Jeanjean is too clever to be caught. He is wary, rich, and takes every precaution against surprise."
"You know him—eh?"
"Yes," I admitted. "But what is the latest information you have regarding him?"
Jonet took up the telephone and gave instructions for the dossier of the great criminal to be brought to him.
In a few moments a clerk entered bearing three formidable portfolios full of reports, photographs, lists of stolen jewellery, and other matters concerning the career of the man who had constantly baffled all attempts to capture him.
Jonet opened one of the portfolios and scanned several sheets of closely-written reports. Then he said—
"It seems that he, with a young girl, said to be a niece of his, were in Russia just prior to the great robbery from a jeweller in Petersburg. No doubt they were implicated in it. The girl, travelling alone, passed the frontier at Wirballen on the following day, but the telegram from the Petersburg police arrived at the frontier too late, and in Germany she disappeared."
"And what about Jeanjean?" I asked.
The famous Chief Inspector read on for a few moments. Then he replied—
"He was seen on the day of the theft, together with an Italian, believed to be one of his accomplices, but after that nothing further was heard of him until four days later. Then an inspector at Lille recognized him from his circulated photograph, but not being quite certain, and also knowing that, if the suspect were actually the man wanted, he would be armed, and recollecting the affair at Charleroi, he did not care to make a pounce single-handed. He went back to the police-station, but while he was looking for the photograph, his man, evidently seeing he was suspected, made his escape."
"And have you a photograph of the girl?" I asked anxiously.
"She has never been arrested, therefore we have no official portrait," was his reply. "But last summer, one of my assistants, a young man named Rothera, was in Dinard at the Hôtel Royal, keeping observation in another matter, when one evening he saw a young girl, who was staying in the hotel with an elderly aunt, meet in the Casino a man who greatly resembled Jeanjean. The pair went out and had a long stroll, speaking confidentially together. Meanwhile Rothera, like the inspector at Lille, went to the local bureau de police to turn up the description of the wanted man. Having done so, and having satisfied himself that it was actually the master-criminal so long wanted, he took three men and waited in patience in the country road along which the pair had strolled. Two hours elapsed, when, to their dismay, the young girl returned alone. Jeanjean, it was afterwards discovered, had a motor-car awaiting him about four kilometres away along the Dinan road. Rothera said nothing to the girl, but next day got into conversation with her in the hotel. He was exceedingly attentive through several succeeding days, and being an amateur photographer, asked to be allowed to take a snapshot of her. He had satisfied himself that, from her description, she was that female accomplice of the notorious jewel-thief, of whom we possessed no portrait. She, quite unsuspecting, believed Rothera to be an idle young man of means. He took the picture—and here it is," added the Inspector, and passed over to me a photograph of post-card size.
It was Lola. Lola, in a pretty white summer gown, lolling lazily in a long cane chair upon the beach at Dinard, and laughing merrily, her hat flung upon the ground, and her book in her lap. A pretty scene of summer idleness.
CHAPTER XVI "WHERE THE TWO C'S MEET"
So Lola's portrait was in the hands of the French police. The fact jarred upon me.
But I was careful not to betray any of the agitation I felt, and after gazing upon it in silence I remarked in a light tone to Jonet—
"That is the only portrait you've got—eh? Rather good-looking, isn't she?"
"Good-looking! Ah, mon cher Vidal, extremely beautiful, I call her," declared the Inspector, taking the picture and gazing upon it. "Really," he added, "it hardly seems possible that such a pretty girl should be such a hardened and expert thief as she is reported to be."
"I thought Jeanjean was the thief," I said with a pretence of surprise.
Jonet lit a fresh cigarette, after offering me one. Then he said—
"It is on record here," and he tapped the damning portfolio that lay under his hand, "that in at least half a dozen cases the methods have been the same. The Nightingale—as the girl, whose real name is Lola Sorel, but who has a dozen aliases—is called by her friends, goes with her maid to one of the smartest hotels, say at Carlsbad, Nice, Aix, Trouville, or London, Berlin, anywhere, where there are usually wealthy women. She is a modest little person, and makes a long stay, keeping her blue eyes well open for any visitor possessed of valuable jewellery. Having fixed upon one, she carefully cultivates the lady's acquaintance, is extremely affable, and soon becomes on such intimate terms with her that she is admitted to her bedroom, and is then able to discover where the lady's jewels are kept—whether the case is sufficiently small to be portable, and if not, what kind of lock it has. Every detail she carefully notes and passes on to Jeanjean, who, when the coup is ready, appears from nowhere. He is too wary to stay in the same hotel."
"Then the girl has a maid with her!" I exclaimed.
"Invariably," was Jonet's reply. "But the methods by which the robberies are carried out are varied. In some cases the pretty Lola has simply seized an opportunity to transfer her 'friend's' jewel-case to her own room, whence it has been abstracted in her absence by Jeanjean. In other cases while she has been out with the owner of the jewels, motoring, or shopping, or at the theatre, Jeanjean, having had the tip from his niece, has slipped in and secured the valuables. Again this method has been varied by Lola stealing the best piece from the victim's room and in the night handing it to Jeanjean from her bedroom window, as was done at Cannes last winter, when the Princess Tynarowski lost her diamond collar after a brief acquaintance with the fascinating Lola. The latter remained in the hotel for nearly a fortnight following the theft and left still enjoying the greatest friendship of the unsuspecting victim."
"Then this girl must be very clever and daring," I exclaimed.
"Yes. She is the tool of that scoundrel Jeanjean," declared Jonet, closing the dossier. "Poor girl. Probably she acts entirely against her will. The brute has her in his power, as so many girls are in the power of unscrupulous men in the criminal under-world. They, in their innocence, commit one crime, perhaps unconsciously, and for years afterwards they are threatened with exposure to us; so, in order to purchase their liberty, they are forced to become thieves and adventuresses. Ah, yes, mon cher Vidal, that is a curious and tragic side of criminal life, one of which the world never dreams."
"Then you do not believe this girl is really a criminal from instinct?" I asked eagerly.
"No. She is under the all-compelling influence of Jeanjean, who will not hesitate to take a life if it suits him; the man who has set at naught every law of our civilized existence."
"Her position must be one full of terror," I said.
"Yes. Poor girl. Though I have never seen her, to my knowledge, yet I, even though I am a police functionary, cannot help feeling pity for her. Think what a girl forced into crime by such a man must suffer! Rothera in his report says she is extremely refined and full of personal charm."
"That is why wealthy women find her such a pleasant and engaging companion, I suppose."
"No doubt. Most middle-aged women take an interest in a pretty girl, especially if she can tell a good story of her unhappiness with her parents, or of some sorrowful love affair," remarked Jonet. "I expect she can romance as well as you can, my friend," he laughed. "And you are a professional writer."
"Better, in all probability," I rejoined, also laughing. "At any rate it seems that, by her romances, this fellow Jeanjean reaps a golden harvest."
"And I dare say her profits are not very much," said the police official. "He probably pays all her hotel bills, and gives her a little over for pocket money."
"And the maid?"
"Ah! She must be one of the gang. They would never risk being given away by one who was not in the swim. The maid, if she were in ignorance of what went on, would very quickly scent some mystery, for each time her young mistress found a new friend in an hotel she would notice that jewels invariably were reported missing, and a hue and cry raised. No. The maid is an accomplice, and at this moment I am doing all I can to fix the interesting pair."
"And you will arrest them?"
"Of course," he replied determinedly. "I sympathize with the pretty little thief, yet I have my duty to perform. Besides, if I have the interesting little lady here before me for interrogation, I shall, I think, not be very long before I discover our friend Jeanjean in his secret hiding-place."
I did not answer for several minutes.
A trap had evidently been laid for Lola, and, in her own interests, she should be warned.
Continuing, I further questioned my friend, and he told me some astounding stories of Jeanjean's elusiveness. I, however, said nothing of what I knew. I remained silent regarding the curious affair in Cromer, and as to my knowledge that the pretty villa near Algiers concealed the man for whom all the police of Europe were in search.
My chief concern was for Lola, and that same evening I wrote to her at the Poste Restante at Versailles giving her warning of what was intended. She was probably in Brussels, but in due course would, no doubt, receive my letter, and see me again, as I requested.
On two other occasions I saw Jonet, but he had no further information regarding Jeanjean and his gang. The chief point which puzzled him seemed to be the fact that not a single stone, out of all the stolen jewels, had been traced.
"The receiver is an absolute mystery," he declared. "Perhaps the stuff goes to London."
"Perhaps," I said. "Have you made inquiry of Scotland Yard?"
"Oh, yes. I was over there a month ago. But they either know nothing, or else they are not inclined to help us." Then with a faint smile he added, "As you know, mon cher ami, I have no very great admiration for your English police. Their laws are always in favour of the criminal, and their slowness of movement is astounding to us."
"Yes. Your methods are more drastic and more effective in the detection of crime," I admitted.
"And in its prevention," he added.
That day was the twenty-sixth of August, and as I walked along the Rue de Rivoli back to the Hotel Meurice, I suddenly remembered the mysterious tryst contained in that letter found in the pocket of Edward Craig. The appointment at the spot, "where the two C's meet," at Ealing.
I left Paris that night by the mail-train, crossed from Calais to Dover, and at noon next day alighted at Ealing Broadway station.
I had never been in Ealing before, and spent several hours wandering about its quiet, well-kept suburban roads, many of them of comfortable-looking detached villas. But I found the district a perfect maze of streets, therefore I went and sat on one of the seats in the small park in front of the station, wondering how best to act.
Two clear days were still before me ere the meeting which had apparently been arranged with old Gregory—the man with the master-mind.
"Where the two C's meet."
I lunched at the Feathers Hotel near the station, and all that hot afternoon wandered the streets, but failed to discover any clue. What "C's" were meant? Possibly two persons whose initials were C were in the habit of meeting at some spot, or in some house at Ealing—and Ealing is a big place when one is presented with such a problem.
Fagged and hungry, I returned to my rooms in Carlos Place, off Berkeley Square, where Rayner was awaiting me. He knew the object of my search, and as he admitted me, asked if I had been successful.
"No, Rayner, I haven't," I snapped. "I can see no ray of daylight yet. The appointment is an important one, no doubt, and one which we should watch. But how?"
"Well, sir," he replied, as I cast myself into my big arm-chair, and he got out my slippers, "we could watch the two railway stations at Ealing, and see if we detect old Gregory, or any of the others."
"They might go to Ealing in a tram or a taxi," I suggested.
"Yes, sir. But there'll be no harm in watching the trains, will there?" my man remarked. "If he went in a taxi he might leave by train."
"True," I said, and after a few seconds' reflection, added, "Yes. We'll try the trains."
So, on the night of the twenty-ninth, at about nine o'clock in the evening, I took up my post in the small arcade which formed the exit of the station and there waited patiently.
I was in a shabby tweed suit, with patched boots, and a cloth golf-cap, presenting the appearance of a respectable workman, as I smoked my short briar-pipe and idled over the Evening News.
As each train arrived I eagerly scanned the emerging passengers, while pretending to look in the shop window, but I saw nobody whom I knew.
The expression, "Where the two C's meet," kept running through my mind as I stood there in impatient inactivity. It was already past nine, and, in three-quarters of an hour, the fateful meeting, for somehow I felt that it was a fateful meeting, would be held.
The two "C's." The idea suddenly flashed across my mind, whether the spot indicated could be the junction of two roads, or streets, the names of which commenced with "C." Yet, how could I satisfy myself? If I searched Ealing again for roads commencing with a "C," I could only do so in daylight, too late to learn what I so dearly wished.
Of a porter I inquired the time of arrival of the next underground train and found that I had eight minutes. So I dashed along to the Feathers Hotel, where I obtained a map of the Ealing district and eagerly scanned it to find streets commencing with "C."
For some minutes I was unsuccessful, until of a sudden I noticed Castlebar Road, and examining the map carefully saw, to my excitement, that at an acute angle it joined another road, called Carlton Road, a triangular open space lying between the two thoroughfares.
It was the spot in Ealing where the two C's met!
I glanced at the clock.
It still wanted a quarter to ten, therefore I drained my glass hastily and, leaving the hotel, struck across the small open space opposite the station, in which, in a direct line, lay the junction of the two roads.
The evening was dark and sultry, with every indication of a thunderstorm. I remembered Rayner's vigil, but alas! had no time to go to him and explain my altered plans.
Along the dark, rather ill-lit, suburban road I hurried until, before me, I saw a big electric-light standard with four great inverted globes.
It showed a parting of the ways.
I looked at my watch as I passed a street-lamp, and saw that it wanted two minutes to ten.
And as I looked on ahead I saw, standing back in the shadow of the trees, on the left-hand, a dark figure, but in the distance I could not distinguish whether a man or a woman waited there.
I hurried forward, full of eagerness, to witness the secret meeting, and with an intention of watching and following those who met.
Yet, could I have foreseen the due result of such inquisitiveness, I scarcely think that I would have dared to tread ground so highly dangerous.
CHAPTER XVII REVEALS ANOTHER PLOT
Approaching from Ealing Broadway, the huge electric-light standard, which was also a sign-post, shed a bright glow across the junction of the two roads. The thoroughfare on the right was Castlebar Road and on the left Carlton Road. In the latter road stood half a dozen big old trees, relics of a day when Ealing was a rural village and those trees formed a leafy way.
Beyond the sign-post, placed at the end of the triangle, lay a small open space of grass, and behind it a pleasant house with many trees in its spacious grounds.
At that hour silence reigned in that highly respectable suburban neighbourhood, and, as I went forward, I noticed that the figure beneath the trees was that of a man, who, emerging from the shadow, crossed the road leisurely and passed across the grass into the Castlebar Road, on the right hand.
He was dressed in dark clothes with a light grey felt hat, but so far was I away that to see his features was impossible, though the zone of light from the sign-post revealed his figure plainly.
Once he halted and looked in my direction, on hearing my footsteps, I suppose, but then continued his leisurely stroll.
I was upon the left-hand pavement, and in order not to attract the man's attention, passed along by the garden walls of the series of detached villas, for about two hundred yards, until the road ran in a curve round to the left, and thus I became hidden from his view.
When I found that I had not attracted the attention of the waiting man in the grey hat, I halted.
Was that the spot indicated? Was he one of those keeping the long-arranged appointment?
Ten o'clock had struck fully five minutes before, therefore, treading noiselessly, I retraced my steps until I could cautiously peep around the corner and see over the triangular plot of grass to the Castlebar Road.
Yes, the man was still standing there awaiting somebody. I could see the glowing end of his cigar.
Fortunately, he had his back turned towards me, gazing in the direction of the Broadway in apparent expectation. This allowed me to slip along a few yards, and entering the garden gate of one of the villas, I crouched down behind the low stone wall which separated the garden from the footway.
Kneeling there, I could watch without being seen, for fortunately the stranger opposite had not seen me.
I suppose I must have been there fully ten minutes. Several people passed within a few inches of me quite unsuspicious of my presence. In Castlebar Road a few people went along, but none interested the watcher.
Of a sudden, however, after straining his eyes for a long time in the direction whence I had come, he suddenly threw away his cigar and started off eagerly.
A few moments later I witnessed the approach of a short, thinnish man, wearing a black overcoat, open, over his evening clothes, and an opera hat.
And as he approached I recognized him. It was none other than Gregory himself!
The two men shook hands heartily, and by their mutual enthusiasm I realized that they could not have met for some considerable time.
They halted on the kerb in eager consultation, then both with one accord turned and strolled together in the direction of the station.
Next moment I had slipped from my hiding-place and was lounging along at a respectable distance behind them.
How I regretted that I had had no time to hail Rayner, for he would have had no difficulty in keeping observation upon the pair, while I, at any moment, might be recognized by the cunning, clever old fellow to whose inventiveness all the coups of the notorious Jules Jeanjean were due.
He seemed to walk more erect, and with more sprightliness, than at Cromer, where his advanced age and slight infirmity were undoubtedly assumed. In his present garb he really looked what he was supposed to be—a wealthy dealer in gems.
Engaged in earnest conversation, Gregory and his companion walked together along the dark road until they came to a taxi-stand near the station, when, entering the first cab, they drove rapidly away.
The moment they had left, I leapt into the next cab and, telling the driver to keep his friend in sight, we were soon moving along after the red tail-light of the first taxi.
The chase was an exciting one, for we whizzed along dark roads, quite unfamiliar to me, roads lying to the south of Ealing towards the Thames. My driver believed me to be a detective from my garb, and I did not discourage the belief.
Suddenly we turned to the right, when I recognized that we were in the long, narrow town of Brentford, and travelling in the direction of Syon House, the main road to Hounslow and Staines. At Spring Grove, which I had known slightly in years gone by, we turned again to the right, and were soon passing through a district of market-gardens and solitary houses.
On the way I had leaned out of the window and instructed the taxi-driver to keep well behind the other cab, so as not to be discovered. Therefore, in carrying out my orders, he suddenly put on his brakes and stopped, saying—
"They're going into that house yonder, sir. See?"
I nipped out quickly and saw that in the distance the other taxi had pulled up and the two men had alighted before a garden gate.
"Put out your lights, go back to the end of the road, and wait for me," I said.
Then I hurried forward to ascertain what I could.
The taxi, having put down its two fares and been dismissed, turned and passed me as I went forward. At last I had run the sly old fox, Gregory, to earth, and I now meant to keep in touch with him.
On approaching the house I found it to be a good-sized one, standing back, lonely and deserted, in a weedy garden, and surrounded by big, high elms. From the neglect apparent everywhere, the decayed oak fence, and the grass-grown path leading to the front door, it was plain that the place was unoccupied, though in two windows lights now shone, behind dark-green holland blinds.
The place seemed situated in the centre of some market-gardens, without any other house in the near vicinity. A dismal, old-fashioned dwelling far removed from the bustle of London life, and yet within hearing of it, for, as I stood, I could see the night-glare of the metropolis shining in the sky, upon my right, and could hear the roar of motor-buses upon the main road through Spring Grove.
For a few moments I stood up under the shadow of a big bush which overhung the road, my eyes upon the lower window where the fights showed. The house was half-covered with ivy and had bay-windows upon each side of the front door, which was approached by a short flight of moss-grown steps.
That I was not mistaken in my surmise that the house was uninhabited was proved by the "To Let" notice-board which I discerned lying behind the fence, thrown down purposely, perhaps.
Was old Gregory an intruder there? Had he purposely thrown down that board in order that any person, seeing lights in the window, would not have their suspicions sufficiently aroused to cause them to investigate?
The house was a dark, weird one. But what would I not have given to be inside, and to overhear what was being planned!
Vernon Gregory was, according to Lola, the instigator of all those marvellously ingenious thefts effected by Jeanjean. Was another great robbery being planned?
Perhaps the man in the grey hat had travelled from afar. Possibly so, because of the long time in advance the appointment had been made.
All was silent. Therefore I crept over the weedy garden until I stood beneath the bay window in which a light was shining.
I could hear voices—men's voices raised in controversy. Then, suddenly, they only conversed in whispers. What was said, I could not distinguish. They were speaking in French, but further than that I could catch nothing.
Sometimes they laughed heartily at something evidently hailed as a huge joke. I distinctly heard Gregory's tones, but the others' I could not recognize. As far as I could gather they were strangers to me.
Was the place, I wondered, one of old Gregory's hiding-places? Though he conducted his business in Hatton Garden, where he was well known, his private address, Lola had told me, had always been a mystery, such pains did he take to conceal it.
Was that lonely house his place of abode? Had he met his friend in Ealing and taken him there in order to place before him certain plans for the future?
I looked at the grim old house, with its mantle of ivy, and reflected upon what quantities of stolen property it might contain!
That the man I knew as Vernon Gregory was head of an association of the cleverest jewel-thieves in the world, had been alleged by Lola, and I believed her. His deep cunning and clever elusiveness, his amazing craftiness and astounding foresight had been well illustrated by his disappearance from Cromer, even though his flight had been so sudden that he had been compelled to abandon his treasures. Yet as I stood there, upon the carpet of weeds, with my ears strained, I could hear his familiar voice speaking in slow measured tones, as he was explaining something in elaborate detail.
What was it? I stood there in a fever of excitement and curiosity.
Yet I had one satisfaction. I had run him to earth at last.
Presently the voices of the men were again raised in dissension. Gregory had apparently made some statement from which the others—how many there were, I knew not—dissented. They spoke rapidly in French, and I could hear one man's mouth full of execrations, a hard, hoarse voice of one of the lower class.
Then I distinctly heard some one say in English—
"I don't believe it! He knows nothing. Why take such a step against an innocent man?"
"Because, I tell you, he knows too much!" declared Gregory, now speaking loudly in English. "He was at Cromer, and discovered everything. Ah! you don't know how shrewd and painstaking he is. Read his books and you will see. He is the greatest danger confronting you to-day, my friends."
I held my breath. They were discussing me!
"I object," exclaimed the man who had first spoken in English. "He has no evil intentions against us."
"But he knows the Nightingale, and through her has learnt much," Gregory replied promptly.
"What?" gasped the unseen speaker. "Has she told him anything? Has the girl betrayed us?"
"Ask her," the old man urged. "She's upstairs. Call her."
Lola was there—in that house!
CHAPTER XVIII DONE IN THE NIGHT
I heard the stranger's voice call—
"Lola! Lola! Come here. We want you."
I heard her rather impatient reply, and then, a few moments later, she descended the stairs and entered the room where the gang had been discussing me.
Some quick words in French were exchanged. Then I heard her cry—
"I tell you, I refuse!"
A man's voice protested.
"No, You shall not!" she declared in a loud, defiant voice. "If you do, then the police shall know!"
"Oh!" exclaimed old Gregory, whose voice I recognized. "Then you object, Mademoiselle, eh?"
"Yes. I do object, M'sieu'!" she cried. "If any attempt is made against him, then I shall myself inform the police. Remember, M'sieu' Vidal is my friend."
"Your lover, perhaps," sneered the old man.
"No," she cried in loud, angry protest. "He is not my lover! Would he love a girl like myself—a girl who has been brought by you, and your friends, to what I am?"
"Well, you are a very pretty girl, and sometimes uncommonly useful to your uncle," replied old Gregory tauntingly.
"Of use to you!" she cried. "Yes, I know I am! And when you have no further use for me, then—then—an accident will happen to me, and I shall trouble you no further—an accident like that which you intend shall befall Mr. Vidal!"
I crouched against the window, my ears glued to the glass. I tried to picture to myself the scene within—how the young girl I had befriended in such curious circumstances was standing before them, defying them to make any attempt to put me out of action.
"You speak like a little fool, Lola," old Gregory declared. "You lead the life of a lady of means. You travel with a maid, and all you have to do is to be pleasant to people, and keep your eyes and ears open. For that you receive very handsome rewards, and——"
"And you make a million francs a year, M'sieur Gregory," she interrupted. "Ah! when the police trace these marvellous plots to their source, they will be surprised. One day the papers will be full of you and your wicked doings—mark me!"
"You are mad, you ungrateful little minx!" shouted the old man in furious anger. "If you try to prevent me carrying out any of my schemes, depend upon it you will rue it. I'm not a man to be played with!"
"Neither am I to be played with, though I am only a girl!" she retorted. "I'm desperate now—rendered desperate by you and your blackguardly gang."
"Because you fear for this novelist friend of yours—this prying person who is so fond of investigating other people's affairs, and using the material for his books, eh?"
"Yes. I fear for him, because I know what is intended."
"I tell you it's a matter which does not concern you," said the man with the master-mind, as I listened attentively.
"It does. He is my friend," she exclaimed in French. "I know that you intend he shall die—and I will warn him."
"You will, will you!" shouted Gregory, and I heard him spring to his feet. "Repeat that, at your peril!"
"I do repeat it!" said the girl wildly. "He shall not be harmed!"
"Eh? So you are ready to betray us, are you!" said the old man in a hard, hissing voice.
"Yes," she cried in defiance. "I will, if you so much as touch a hair of his head."
"You will! Then take that!" screamed the old man, while, at the same instant, I heard a heavy blow struck, followed by a woman's scream, and a loud noise as she fell upon the floor.
"Dieu!" I heard a man's voice exclaim. "Why—master—you've killed her!"
Then as I stood there, breathless, I heard some further conversation in low tones. The ruffians were discussing the tragedy—for a tragedy I felt it to be. A defenceless girl struck down by old Gregory—her lips closed for ever because she had sought to protect me!
These men feared me! This thought, despite the horror and anger with which I was seething, flashed through my mind like fire. They believed that I knew more than I really did.
But it was a moment for action. Old Gregory had deliberately struck down that unfortunate girl who had been trained until she had become an expert thief, made a cat's paw and tool for that dangerous gang of criminals.
Creeping along the wall of the house, I managed to find and noiselessly place against the window a rustic garden-chair, and discovering also a heavy piece of wood. I prepared to make a dramatic entry into the room where this tragedy had happened, and the conspiracy against my life was being hatched.
Again I listened. The voices were now so low that I could not catch the words uttered.
Then standing on a level with the window-sill, I raised my arm and with the block of wood smashed one of the huge, long panes to fragments.
The crash was startling, no doubt, but ere they could recover from it I had dashed the holland blind aside and stepped boldly into the room, my big Browning revolver in my hand, and my back instantly against the wall.
The scene there was truly a strange one.
It was a dingy, old-fashioned drawing-room furnished in early Victorian style, with ponderous walnut furniture, a brown threadbare carpet, ugly arm-chairs, a what-not, and wax flowers under a glass dome, in the fashion beloved by our grandmothers. By the fireplace was a cosy corner, the upholstery of which was tattered and moth-eaten, while the stuffing of some of the chairs appeared through the corners of the cushions. Near where I stood was an old chintz-covered couch, and beyond, an arm-chair, of the same inartistic description.
The place smelt damp and musty, and in places the faded grey paper was peeling from the walls.
Three men were there. Gregory, and two others, strangers. The old man's appearance had greatly altered from what it was when I had seen him wandering about in Cromer. Then he had worn his white hair and beard long, and with his broad forehead, his pointed chin, and wide-brimmed slouch hat presented the picturesque appearance such as twenty years ago used to be affected by literary men or artists.
But now, as he stood before me, startled by my sudden appearance, I saw that he wore both beard and hair much shorter, and, though he could not alter his height, his facial expression was considerably different.
In an instant I realized that I saw him now as he naturally was, while in Cromer he had so disguised himself as to appear many years older than was actually the case.
His two companions were rather well-dressed men of perhaps thirty, one of whom, a foreigner, wore a small pointed brown beard, while the other, clean-shaven, was unmistakably an Englishman. Thieves they were both, assuredly, yet in the street one would have passed them by as respectable and rather refined citizens.
"You! Vidal!" cried Gregory, starting back when I sprang so unceremoniously into their midst.
"Yes, Vidal, Mr. Gregory!" I cried, striving to remain calm. Yet how could I, when my eyes fell upon the form of Lola, who, dressed in a dark-brown walking-costume, was lying huddled up in a heap on the floor, a few feet from where I stood.
Blood was upon the bosom of her dress. She had been struck down brutally with a knife!
"I may tell you, Gregory," I said, as coolly as I could, "that I have been listening to your interesting conspiracy to kill me. Well, do so now, if you dare! My friends are outside. They will be charmed to meet you, I assure you, especially after the foul deed you committed only a few minutes ago."
The three men started and exchanged glances. I saw by their faces that they were frightened. Yet I dared not lower my pistol, or bend down to Lola, for they would have jumped upon me instantly.
As I spoke, I pushed forth my weapon threateningly, covering them with it determinedly. But it required all my nerve to face them.
"You are an assassin, sir!" I cried, "and I have caught you redhanded."
"You haven't caught us yet," remarked the foreigner, defiantly, speaking English with a strong accent; and the expressions upon the faces of all three were villainous.
My thoughts were not of myself, but to avenge that murderous blow which had been struck at the poor defenceless girl. They were scoundrels, without pity and without compunction, who held human life cheaply whenever the existence of a person stood in the way of their schemes.
And I knew that they intended that I, too, should die.
But they were not quite sure whether I had the police waiting outside or not. My bluff had worked. I saw how they hesitated. Even Gregory was taken aback by my boldness in entering there and facing them.
"I may tell you," I said, still keeping my back to the wall and my useful Browning ready for business, "that I have discovered much more concerning your interesting doings and your intentions than you imagine."
"Lola has told you!" burst forth old Gregory. "Well, she won't have further opportunity of doing so."
"And you will not have further opportunity of engineering your remarkable thefts, my dear sir," I replied quite coolly. "The police desire to see you, and to question you about a certain little affair at Cromer, remember. You are extremely clever, Mr. Gregory—or whatever your real name may be—but I tell you that you are at last unmasked. To-morrow the papers will be full of your interesting career, and one diamond-broker will disappear from Hatton Garden for ever."
"Listen," cried the master-criminal to his companions, his face now white as paper. "Hark what that little chit of a girl has been saying! Was I not right to strike her down?"
"Quite," admitted his two companions.
"And now you will pay the penalty, my dear sir," I declared. "I intend that you shall."
"Put that revolver down," Gregory commanded. "Let us talk. You are clever, Mr. Vidal, and I—well, I confess you have the whip hand of us."
His companions looked at each other, dismayed at these words of the Master. He had actually admitted defeat!
For a few seconds I did not reply. I was reflecting, and it struck me that this pretence of being vanquished might only be a ruse. Gregory was far too clever and defiant a criminal to be beaten single-handed by the man he so sincerely hated and feared.