The Sins of Séverac Bablon

THE HEAD OF CÆSAR

The voices died away. A door banged somewhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But to what are you committing me?"

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

"I don't follow you."

"To-morrow all will be clear!"

"Why did you blindfold me?"

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

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

Sheard held out his hand. And withdrew it again.

"To-morrow——" he began.

"To-morrow you will have no choice!"

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

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

"Why?"

"No matter! It will be so!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sat up with a start.

"What is it, dear?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sheard returned to the house.

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

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

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

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

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

Frowning uneasily, he stepped to the bookcase.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crofton whistled softly and then passed along the room.

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

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

"The stolen one?"

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

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

Jesson shrugged his shoulders.

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

Sheard coughed uneasily. He had a task to perform.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have enjoyed excellent health."

"I admit it."

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

Sir Leopold started.

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

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

"Do you know anything of this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Hamilton Vase! You villain!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you manage what you propose?"

"I can!" answered Sheard, confidently.

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

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

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

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

A MYSTIC HAND

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

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

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

Mrs. Rohscheimer's dinner party murmured sympathetically.

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

"Dirty aggomblices, eh? Dirty?"

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

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

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

[1] Representatives of capital.

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

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

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

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

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

Furthermore, it contained the following note:

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Leopold Jesson was watching him covertly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" asked Rohscheimer.

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

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

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

"What about me?" said Mr. Oppner.

Replied his beautiful daughter, laughing:

"You've got Canadian interests, Pa!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The superscription was:

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

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

A moment more of silence, then:

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

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

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

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

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

Jesson's face was a study in perplexity.

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

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

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

She shook her head.

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

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

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

"Where the——" Mrs. Rohscheimer coughed.

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

Where had the ominous "second notice" come from?

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

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

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

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

Amid a tense silence the girl replied:

"From—someone's hand!"

THE SHADOW OF SÉVERAC BABLON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rohscheimer's rejoinder was dramatic.

"The diamonds!" he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mine can be got ready in——"

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

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

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

"Adeler!"

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

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

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

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

"You positively saw the hand?"

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

Sheard was standing near.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A short silence fell, then:

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

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

What a wondrous power is gold!

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

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

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

The Baron assured him that he should follow his advice.

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

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

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

The cab drove off.

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

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

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

Haredale, in the hall-way, turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Chief Inspector Sheffield."

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

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

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

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

"I distrust Sheard!" snapped Jesson suddenly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hallo!"

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

"Have you got the card?"

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

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

"What's the matter?" cried Jesson.

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

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

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

THE RING

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

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

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

The Baron took up the speaking-tube.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am dreaming!"

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

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

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

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

Hague started forward, fists clenched.

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

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

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

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

"Sit down, Baron," he reiterated.

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

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

"For the last time—sit down, Baron!"

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

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

He sat down.

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

"I will not——" began Hague.

Séverac Bablon checked him, with a gesture.

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

Baron Hague stared in angry bewilderment.

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

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

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

"Why do you make a victim of me?" he gasped. "Antony Elschild is——"

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

"For how much?"

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

The Baron gulped.

"In Berlin—they would say I was mad!"

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

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

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

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

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

Hague looked up.

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

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

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

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

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

"Gott!" he muttered. "I am going mad! You cannot be—you——"

"I am he!"

Baron Hague's knees began to tremble.

"It is impossible!"

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

The Baron could scarcely stand.

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

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

But Hague drew back yet further.

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

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

Baron Hague offered no defence; made no reply.

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