"No," I replied with a grim smile. "It is war between us, Mr. Gregory—not peace. Therefore, I shall hold my revolver here until my friends arrive. They will not be long, and I shall not suffer from fatigue, I assure you."
Gregory, quick-witted and shrewd, cast a rapid glance around as he stood before me, a smart figure in his well-cut evening clothes, with a fine diamond glistening in his pleated shirt-front.
"Well," he exclaimed after a brief pause, "if you deliberately take on the duties of the police, and pry into affairs which do not concern you, then you must take the consequences."
"For that very reason I have entered here," I said, "to become witness of your dastardly crime. You have killed that girl—killed her because you feared she would betray you."
"She has betrayed us," he retorted. "And she deserves all she has got."
"You infernal brute!" I cried. "If it were not that it would be deliberate murder, I'd put a bullet through you in return."
"Try it," he laughed jeeringly. "This quixotic temperament of yours will be your undoing."
"I befriended that unfortunate girl," I said. "And she has appreciated what I did."
"The little fool ran her head into a noose, I know," was his reply. "But even though you befriended her, it gave her no right to betray us."
"Nor any right to you to strike her down," I said, glancing at the white face of the prostrate form.
"Ah! You are her champion!" he laughed. "But you wouldn't be if you knew the truth. She wasn't the innocent little person she led you to believe she was."
"No," I cried angrily. "You shall say nothing against your victim's honour, curse you! I only thank Heaven that I'm here to-night—that I know the truth regarding this tragedy. Your intention was—the intention of all three of you, no doubt, was—to get rid of the evidence of your crime. But that will now be impossible."
As I uttered that last sentence, the bearded Frenchman made a movement towards the door.
"Halt!" I cried in a loud, imperious voice. "Come back here. Do not attempt to leave this room or I'll shoot you," and as he glanced at me he found himself looking into the barrel of my weapon.
"Come," said Gregory. "Enough of this fooling! It's a drawn game between us, Mr. Vidal. Why not let us discuss the future quietly and without any ill-feeling on either side. I admit what I have done—killed the traitress."
"And by Heaven! you shall pay the penalty of your crime!" I cried.
"Oh, shall I?" he laughed with a nonchalant air. "We shall see."
Next instant I heard a sharp click in the passage outside and the room was plunged in darkness. The electric light had been switched off by one of Gregory's confederates out in the hall.
I heard the door opened, and voices shouted wildly in French.
"Just in time," I heard the new-comer cry.
"Ah, Jules!" gasped Gregory. "You are late. Where have you been? Where are you?"
And, by the shuffling of feet, I knew that the men were groping about in the darkness.
Jules Jeanjean was there, in that room!
"Dieu! You were nearly trapped, all of you," I heard him cry. "Where is he?" he asked, referring to myself. "He shall not live to blab. Mind he doesn't get out by the window."
But I still stood with my back against the wall, my pistol raised in self-defence.
A few moments elapsed—moments that seemed like hours—when of a sudden my eyes were blinded by the ray of an electric torch which threw a strong light upon me from the doorway.
Ere I could realize my peril, there was a red flash, followed by a loud explosion, and I felt a hot, stinging sensation in my throat.
Then next second the blackness of unconsciousness fell upon me, and I knew no more.
How long I remained there, or what subsequently happened to me, I did not learn till long afterwards.
I only knew, when I again awoke to consciousness, that it was day, and I found myself in a narrow bed, with two nurses in blue linen dresses, and white caps and aprons, standing near me, while two doctors were gazing into my face with keen, anxious expressions.
At first they would tell me nothing, even though, with a great effort, I asked what had happened. Bandages were around my throat and across my left shoulder, and I felt a nausea and a giddiness that I knew arose from chloroform, and therefore that some operation had been performed. I slowly struggled back to a knowledge of things about me.
"It's all right, Mr. Vidal," the youngest of the two doctors assured me. "Try and sleep. Don't worry. Everything is all right."
I felt uncommonly drowsy, and again slept, and not until night had fallen did I re-open my eyes.
A night-nurse was seated at my bedside, reading by a green-shaded lamp. The little room was in darkness, and I think I startled her when I suddenly spoke.
"Where am I, Nurse?" I inquired in a thin, weak voice, and with difficulty.
"This is the Cottage Hospital at Hounslow," was the reply. "You've been here two days, but you are much better now. Don't talk, however, for the doctor has forbidden it."
"But I want to know what has happened," I protested.
"Well, I don't exactly know," the dark-haired young woman answered. "I only know what I've been told. That is, that a taxi-driver who took you to some house beyond Spring Grove, grew tired of waiting for you, and on going to the house found you in one of the rooms, dying."
"Dying!" I gasped. "Ah! yes, I remember," I added, as recollections of that fateful night arose within my memory.
"Yes. You were suffering from a serious bullet-wound in the throat," she went on. "The window of the room was smashed, but your friends had all fled."
"My friends!" I echoed. "Who said they were my friends?"
"The taxi-driver said so, I believe."
"Where is he?"
"He has promised to come to-morrow, to see you."
"But was not a lady found in the same room?" I inquired eagerly, trying to raise myself. "She had been killed—deliberately struck down!"
"Yes. I've heard that a lady was found there."
"Was she brought here, with me?"
"No" was the nurse's reply. "She was removed, but to what place I've not heard."
Lola was dead! Ah! The sight of that white, upturned face, so delicate and sweet, and of that dark, ugly stream of blood across the bosom of her dress, haunted me. I recollected those hideous moments when, being on my guard against the assassins, I alas! had no opportunity of lending her aid.
She was found dead, apparently, and they had removed her body—probably to the nearest mortuary to await an inquest.
All my thoughts became confused when I realized the tragic truth. The nurse saw that I was upset and urged to try to sleep again. Indeed she gave me a draught which the doctor had ordered and, presently, though much against my inclination, I again dozed off.
It was once more day—a warm, sunny day—when I became thoroughly alive to things about me. The doctors came and expressed satisfaction at my improvement, dressed my wound, which I confess was very painful, and declared that I had had a very narrow escape.
"A quarter of an inch further to the left, Mr. Vidal," one of the surgeons remarked, "and we couldn't have saved you."
Towards noon the taxi-driver, cap in hand, came up to my bedside to inquire how I was. His name was Stevens. The nurse would not, however, allow me to put many questions to him.
"You were such a long time gone, sir, that I thought I'd just come up and see if you wanted me any more. I had to get over to Acton to the garage, for I'd had a long day," he told me. "I'd just got to the garden gate when I heard a pistol shot and, entering the garden, and seeing the window smashed, I suspected something wrong. I got in at the window and found the room in darkness. A light was burning in the hall and the door was open. Quickly I found the electric switch and, turning it, saw you lying on the floor close beside the body of a young lady."
"Did you see the other men?" I asked eagerly.
"At first sir, I believed it to be a case of murder and suicide," answered Stevens, "but a moment later, as I stood in the room horrified at the discovery, I heard several persons leave the house. I tried to raise an alarm, but nobody heard me, so they got clean away. I examined the young lady and yourself, then I rushed out for help. At the bottom of the road I went towards my cab, but as I did so, I heard the engine started and the red tail-lamp moved off, away from me. Those fellows that had run from the house were inside. Yes, sir, them vagabonds had stolen my cab!"
"What did you do then?" I asked excitedly.
"Why, I yelled after 'em, but nobody heard me, until presently I came across a copper and told him what was up. We soon got another taxi and went back to the house, and there we found you both a-lying as I'd left you."
"Was the lady alive?" I queried huskily.
"Yes. She was a-breathing slightly, and as we thought she was injured worse than you, the copper took her off at once to the Brentford Hospital by herself, as there wasn't room for both of you in the cab. On the way he sent another taxi back for me and I brought you here."
"But is the young lady alive now?" I asked.
"I believe so, but I'm not quite sure. She was last night when I called at the hospital, but she was dreadful bad, and in great danger, they told me."
"Ah!" I sighed. "I only hope and pray that she may recover to face and condemn her brutal enemies."
"Was she a friend of yours, sir?" asked the man with some curiosity.
"Yes, a great friend," was my reply.
"But who tried to kill you, sir?" Stevens asked. "Those blokes as escaped seemed to be a pretty desperate lot. My cab ain't been found yet," he added.
"They were her enemies as well as mine," I replied vaguely, for I had no intention of telling him the whole story, though I thanked him sincerely for his prompt help. Had it not been for him I fear that Lola and myself would never have lived through the night. Jeanjean would have taken good care that the lips of both of us were closed for ever.
"Well, sir, you've had a pretty narrow shave of it," Stevens declared. "There's something very queer about that house, it seems. People say that though the place, as was to be let furnished, had nobody a-living in it, strange lights have been seen a-moving about it, and in the windows now and again and always very late at night."
"Will you do a favour for me, Stevens?" I asked.
"Certainly, sir."
Then I gave him instructions first to go to the hospital where Lola was lying, to inquire how she was. Then he was to go on to my flat in Carlos Place, tell Rayner all that had occurred, and order him to come to me at once.
Just then the nurse kindly, but very firmly intervened, and the taxi-driver rose from the chair at my bedside and left.
For some hours I dozed. Then woke to find the faithful Rayner standing by me, much concerned.
"I've had an awful fright, sir," he said. "When you didn't come home for forty-eight hours, I went to Vine Street Police Station and reported that you were missing. Inspector Palmer, of the C.I. Department, knows you well, sir, and he quickly stirred himself. But I heard nothing till that taxi-driver came and told me you were here. He explained how you'd been shot at a house in Spring Grove, Isleworth. I hope you're all right again, sir?"
"Yes, Rayner, so far," I answered rather feebly. "I've a bit of pain in my throat, but they've bandaged me up all right, and I'll soon be about again. That fellow you knew as Dr. Arendt, in Cromer, plugged me."
"What! The man Jeanjean!"
"The same," I said. "Gregory was there, too. I tracked them into their den, and this is what I got for my trouble," I added grimly.
"Well, sir, I'm no end glad you escaped. They're a desperate crowd and you might very easily have gone under. Can I do anything?"
"Yes. Take a message for me to the Brentford Hospital, to Mademoiselle Sorel."
"The lady the taxi-man told me about?" Rayner asked.
"Yes. An attempt was made upon her life," I replied. "Go there, take some nice flowers, and send up a message from me expressing a hope that she's better, and say that I will see her as soon as ever I'm able."
"Very well, sir. I'll be off at once," he replied.
But for some time longer he sat with me, while I gave him instructions regarding various matters. Then he left, promising me to quickly return and bring me news of Lola.
He was absent about a couple of hours, and on re-entering told me that he had seen the Sister in charge, who had given Lola my flowers and my message and had received one in return from her. This was that she felt much better, and that until we met and consulted it would be best to take no action against the assassins.
That same evening, with the doctor's sanction, a tall, clean-shaven man in grey tweeds approached my bed and, seating himself, announced that his name was Warton, and that he was an Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department.
He brought out a business-like book and pencil and in a rather abrupt manner commenced to interrogate me regarding the events of that night when I so narrowly escaped being murdered.
From his methods I judged that he had risen from a constable. He was bluff and to the point. He told me he was attached to the Brentford Station, and I set him down as a man of similar mental calibre to Frayne.
No good could accrue at that moment from any full explanation, so, after listening to him for some little time, I pretended to be very unwell and only answered his questions with plain "yes" or "no."
It was not likely that I would tell all I knew to this local detective. Had Henri Jonet been present it would have been a different matter, but I saw at a glance that Warton was a very ordinary type of police-officer.
He asked me what took me to the house in Spring Grove on that fateful night. To this I merely replied with the one word—
"Curiosity."
Then he asked—
"Did you know the lady who was found stabbed a few feet from you?"
"Yes. I had met her," was my reply.
"Do you know the circumstances in which she was struck down?"
"I was not present then, therefore I could know nothing," was my evasive response.
"But the men in the house were friends of yours, were they not?" he asked.
"No. They were not," was my prompt reply.
"Then, who were they?" he asked, scribbling down my answers with his stumpy pencil.
"I—I don't feel well enough to be questioned like this," I complained to the Sister, who was standing by. "I've committed no crime, and I object to the police making a cross-examination as though I were a criminal. I appeal to you, Sister."
The middle-aged woman in her cool linen uniform, with a silver medal upon her breast, looked hard at me for a moment. Then, realizing the situation, she turned to the detective, and said—
"You must come to-morrow. The patient still suffers much from shock, and I cannot allow him to be questioned further. He is too weak."
"Very well, Sister," replied Warton, as he closed his pocket-book. "I'll come to-morrow. But a strange mystery envelopes that house in Spring Grove, Mr. Vidal," he added, turning back to me. "You'll be surprised when you go there and see for yourself."
"Perhaps Mr. Vidal may be well enough to do so in a few days," said the Sister. "We shall see."
And with that the police-officer was forced to depart.
On several occasions during the weary week that followed Inspector Warton called and saw me, but I always managed, by one subterfuge or another, to evade the more pointed of his questions.
The three men who had attacked Lola and myself that night knew from the papers that we both still lived as witnesses against them.
The nurses would not allow me to see the papers, but from Rayner I learnt that the more sensational section of the London Press had published reports headed, "Novelist Found Shot." Indeed, a great many reporters had called at the hospital, but had been promptly sent empty away.
At last, one morning, I was declared convalescent and sufficiently well to be removed to my chambers. Therefore Rayner ordered Stevens to bring his taxi for me, and we left the hospital.
Though still feeling far from well, I was all curiosity to see the house in Spring Grove by daylight, so we called at the police-station and a stout sergeant of the T. Division accompanied us with the key, the place being still in the hands of the police.
As we pulled up in that unfrequented side-road I saw how mysterious and desolate the place was in the warm sunshine—an old red-brick Georgian house, with square, inartistic windows, standing solitary and alone, half covered by its ivy mantle, and surrounded by a spacious garden dotted with high trees, and neglected and overgrown with weeds.
As we walked over the moss-grown flags leading to the steps, I noticed the window I had smashed in making my entry that night.
The constable unlocked the door and we found ourselves in a wide, spacious hall, its stone flags worn hollow and containing some old-fashioned furniture. The atmosphere of the house was musty and close, and long cobwebs hung in festoons in the corners.
The room on the right, the one in which I had been found, I remembered well. It was just the same as when I had stood there in the presence of the Master and the notorious Jules Jeanjean. Upon its brown threadbare carpet were two ugly stains in close proximity to each other—the spots where both Lola and I had lain!
I saw the wall against which I had stood in defiance. An evening overcoat still lay upon a chair—the coat which old Gregory had abandoned in his hurried flight, when Stevens, the taxi-driver, had so opportunely appeared upon the scene.
"Nothing's been touched, sir," remarked the fat sergeant. "We've been waiting for you to see the place, and to tell us what you know."
I exchanged glances with Rayner.
"I know very little," I replied. "I simply fell in with a very dangerous set. They were evidently plotting something, and believing that I had overheard, attempted to put me out of the way."
"And the lady?"
"I imagine the same sort of thing happened to her. They considered she knew too much of their movements and might betray them."
"But what were they plotting?"
"They spoke in French, so I couldn't catch."
"Oh! They were foreigners—eh?" exclaimed the sergeant in surprise. "Coiners or anarchists, perhaps."
"Perhaps," I said. "Who knows?"
"Ah. I've heard that two strangers have been seen up and down here in the night time," continued the sergeant. "We've got their description from a constable who's been doing night-duty. He says he'd know 'em again. Once he saw a woman with 'em, and he believes it was the young lady now in the hospital."
"He saw them together—eh?"
"He says so."
Then I changed the conversation, and I followed him from room to room through the dirty, neglected house, which nevertheless, with slight signs here and there, showed marks of recent occupation.
Two of the beds in the upstairs rooms had been slept in, and there was other evidence in both kitchen and dining-room that, as I had surmised, it had been the secret hiding-place of the man who posed in Hatton Garden as a substantial and respectable dealer in precious stones.
No doubt he came there late at night, and if he remained during the day he never went out.
Surely the place was one where he might effectively conceal himself from the police; yet to live in such a house, and in that manner, certainly showed a daring and audacity unequalled. He, of course, never knew when a prospective tenant might come to visit it, or the agents in Hounslow might send to inspect its condition.
"You had a very narrow escape here, sir," said the sergeant as we descended the stairs. "Will you step outside? I want to show you something."
We all went out by the kitchen door into the weedy garden where, behind a low wall, lay a mound of newly-dug earth. By its side I saw a rough, yawning hole about five feet long by three broad.
"That's the grave they'd prepared for you, sir, without a doubt! By gum! It was lucky that taxi-driver got up here just in time, or they'd have flung you in and covered you up, dead or alive!"
I stood aghast, staring at the hole prepared for the concealment—not of my body—but that of Lola. They had had no inkling of my expected presence, hence that prepared grave had been for her—and her alone!
She had been invited there by old Gregory, who had intended that she should die, and ere morning broke all trace of the crime would have been removed.
Yes. The fat sergeant spoke the truth. Had not Stevens fortunately come to that house at the moment he did, we should both have been flung into that gaping hole and there buried. In a week the weeds of the garden would have spread and all traces of the soil having been moved would have been obliterated.
How many secret crimes are yearly committed in the suburbs of London! How many poor innocent victims of both sexes, and of all ages, lie concealed beneath the floors of kitchens and cellars, or in the back gardens of the snug, old-fashioned houses around London? Once, Seven Dials or Drury Lane were dangerous. But to-day they are not half so dangerous to the unwary as our semi-rural suburbs. The clever criminal never seeks to dissect, burn, or otherwise get rid of his victim save to bury the body. Burial conceals everything, and the corpse rapidly moulders into dust.
If the walls of the middle-class houses of suburban London could speak, what grim stories some of them could tell! And how many quiet, respectable families are now living in houses where, beneath the basement floor, or in the little back garden, lie the rotting remains of the victim of some brutal crime.
It is the same in Paris, in Brussels, in Vienna, aye, in every capital. The innocent pay the toll always. Men make laws and cleverer men break them. But God reigns supreme, and sooner or later places His hand heavily upon the guilty.
Ask any of the heads of the police of the European Powers, and they will tell you that Providence assists them to bring the guilty to justice. It may be mere chance, mere coincidence, vengeance of those who have been tricked, jealousy of a woman—a dozen motives—yet the result is ever the same, the criminal at last stands before his judges.
The great detective—and there are a dozen in Europe—takes no kudos unto himself. He will tell you that his success in such and such a case is due to some lucky circumstance. Ask him who controlled it, and he will go further and tell you that the punishment meted out to the assassin by man is the punishment decreed by his Creator. He has taken a life which is God-given—hence his own life must pay the penalty.
Rayner, as he looked into the hole which had been so roughly dug, was inclined to hilarity.
"Well, sir," he exclaimed. "It's hardly long enough for you, is it?"
"Enough!" I said. "Had it not been for Stevens, I should have been lying down there with the earth over me."
"I was afraid I shouldn't get my fare," said the taxi-driver, simply. "I didn't know you, sir, and I had four-and-sixpence on the clock—a lot to me."
"And a good job, too," declared Rayner. "If it had only been a bob fare you might have gone back to Acton and left Mr. Vidal to his fate."
"Ah! I quite agree," Stevens said. "It was only by mere chance, as I had promised my wife to be home early that night, it being our wedding-day, and we had two or three friends coming in."
"Then your wedding anniversary saved my life, Stevens!" I exclaimed.
"Well, if you put it that way, sir, I suppose it really did," he replied with a laugh. "But this preparation of a grave is a surprise to me. They evidently got it ready for the young lady—eh?"
I paused. My blood rose against the crafty old Gregory and his associates. They knew of Lola's friendship with me, and they had deliberately plotted the poor girl's death. They had actually dug a grave ready to receive her!
Within myself I made a solemn vow that I would be even with the man whom the mysterious Egisto had addressed as "Master."
Surely I should have a strange and interesting story to relate to my friend Jonet in Paris.
I glanced at the surroundings. About the oblong excavation was a tangled mass of herbage, peas and beans with fading leaves, for it was in the corner of a kitchen-garden, which in the fall of the previous year had been allowed to run wild. And in such a position had the grave been dug that it was entirely concealed.
That it had been purposely prepared for Lola was apparent. She had been invited there to her death!
Had it not been for my fortunate presence, combined with the fact that Stevens had called just at the opportune moment, then the dainty little girl who, against her will, was the cat's paw of the most daring and dangerous gang of criminals in Europe, would be lying there concealed beneath that long tangle of vegetables and weeds.
"The house has been to let for nearly three years," the sergeant informed me. "But this hole has only been recently dug, a little over a week, we think. It was probably on the evening previous to your adventure, sir."
"Probably," I said, for the earth looked still fresh, though the rain had caked it somewhat. Two spades were lying near, therefore, I conjectured, the work had been accomplished by two men. The two I had seen with Gregory, I presumed.
"We're making inquiries regarding the intruders," the sergeant went on. "I only wish Mr. Warton were here, but he had to go up to the Yard this morning. Can't you give any description of the people you saw here?"
"I thought you had described them, Stevens," I said, addressing the taxi-driver.
"So I have, sir. But in the dark I wasn't able to see very much."
"Well," I exclaimed, in reply to the sergeant, "I, too, did not have much opportunity of seeing them. The electric light was switched off the moment I entered and I was shot by the aid of an electric torch. I had no means of defending myself. I fired at the light at the time, it's true, but the scoundrel evidently held it away from him, knowing that I might shoot."
I did not intend to assist the police. The Criminal Investigation Department never showed very great eagerness to assist me in any of my investigations.
"But you saw the men?"
"Yes. As I have already told Inspector Warton."
"What brought you here?"
"I followed two of the men from Ealing."
"I know. But for what reason did you follow them?"
"Because I believed that I recognized them."
"But you were mistaken, eh?" asked the fat sergeant as we still stood at the edge of the grave.
"I hardly know," I answered vaguely, "except that a dastardly attempt was made upon my life because I had pried into the men's business."
The sergeant was silent for a few moments, and I had distinct suspicion that, from the expression upon his face, he did not believe me.
Then he remarked in a slow, reflective tone—
"I suppose, Mr. Vidal, you know that the young French lady who was found here has made a statement to Inspector Warton?"
"What!" I gasped. "What has she told him?"
"I don't know, except that he's gone up to Scotland Yard to-day regarding it."
I held my breath.
What indiscretions, I wondered, had Lola committed!
After leaving the house in which I had so narrowly escaped death, I dropped the sergeant at Spring Place station and, with Rayner, drove over to Brentford, where, at the hospital, I stood beside Lola's bed.
She looked a pale, frail, pathetic little figure, clad in a light blue dressing-jacket, and propped up among the pillows. When she recognized me she put forth a slim white hand and smiled a glad welcome.
"I have been so very anxious about you, Lola," I said after the nurse had gone. "You know, of course, what happened?"
"Yes," she answered weakly in French. "I am so very sorry that you should have fallen into the trap as well as myself, M'sieur Vidal. They induced me to call there for one purpose—to kill me," she added in English, with her pretty French accent.
"I fear that is so," was my reply. "But did you not receive my warnings? The Paris Sûreté are searching for you everywhere, and Jonet is most anxious to find you."
"Ah, I know!" she exclaimed with a slight laugh. "Yes, I got your kind letters, but I could not reply to them. There were reasons which, at the time, prevented me."
She looked very sweet, her fair, soft hair in two long plaits hanging over her shoulders, the ends being secured by big bows of turquoise ribbon.
Yes, she was decidedly pretty; her big, blue, wide-open eyes turned upon me.
"I wrote to Elise Leblanc at Versailles," I said, for want of something else to say.
"I got the letters. I was in Dresden at the time."
"With your uncle?"
"No. He has been in Vienna," was her brief response.
"But he was at that house in Spring Grove."
"Yes. It was a trap for me—a dastardly trap laid for me by old Gregory," she cried in anger. "He intended that I should die, but he never expected you to come so suddenly upon the scene."
"How was it that Jeanjean arrived there also?" I asked.
"He came there to consult the Master," she replied. "A huge affair was being planned to take place at the offices of one of the best known diamond dealers in Hatton Garden. Gregory, being in the diamond trade, knows most of the secrets of the other dealers, and in this case had learned of the arrival of three very fine stones, among the most notable diamonds known to the world. For three months he had carefully laid his plans of attack, and on the night in question had called his confederates together, as was his habit, in order to put his plans finally before them, and to allocate each his work. Through my uncle, however, I knew of the proposed robbery, and the old man, fearing me, had decided that it would be in their interests if I died. Hence the attack upon me."
"A most base and brutal one!" I cried. "But thank Heaven! Lola, you are recovering. I overheard all that you said regarding myself."
She flushed slightly, but did not reply.
"To-day I have heard that you have made a statement to the police," I went on in a low voice so that I should not be overheard by the nurse who stood outside the door of the small two-bedded ward, the second bed being unoccupied.
"Yes. An agent of police came and questioned me," was her reply, "but I did not tell him much—at least, nothing which might give them any clue—or which would jeopardize either of us. I had heard that you were recovering, and therefore I thought you would prefer to unmask Gregory and his associates yourself, rather than leave it to the London police. Besides, they have escaped and I have no idea where they may now be."
"Quite right," I replied, much relieved at her words. "You acted wisely, for had you told them the truth they would in all probability have arrested you."
She smiled faintly.
"Yes. That was one of the reasons which caused me to exercise discretion. I felt that we should soon meet again, M'sieur Vidal," she added. "They say that I shall be discharged from here in about a week."
"I hope so," I declared earnestly. "You had a very narrow escape from those fiends."
"I was quite unsuspicious when I went there," she said. "That house has been our meeting-place for the past eighteen months or so. Sometimes we met at Gregory's flat in Amsterdam, and sometimes at the tenantless house in Spring Grove, or at one which has been to let at Cricklewood, and also at a house in West Hampstead."
"The spot 'where the three C's meet' at Ealing is the usual rendezvous, I suppose?"
"Yes, the place is easy of access, quiet, and entirely unsuspicious. I have met my uncle there sometimes when in London, and sometimes Gregory or the others. The conference usually took place there, and then we went together in a taxi to one or other of the meeting-places which Gregory had established."
"As soon as you have quite recovered we will lay a trap and secure the whole gang," I whispered confidently.
"Ah! I fear that will not be easy," she exclaimed, slowly shaking her head. "We shall be too well watched."
"And we can watch also," I remarked. "I know that from to-day I shall be kept under close supervision because they will fear me more than ever. But I shall manage to evade them, never fear. As soon as you leave hospital we must join forces and exterminate this gang of assassins."
She drew a long breath, bent her fair brows and looked straight across at the pale-green wall. I could see that she was not at all confident of escape. She knew how clever, designing and unscrupulous was the old man Gregory; how cheaply her uncle, Jules Jeanjean, held human life.
"Where is Gregory now, I wonder?" I exclaimed.
"Who knows? They are all in France or Belgium, I expect. They may be in Amsterdam, but I do not think so, as they might suspect me of making a statement to the police."
"What did you tell the police?"
For a moment she hesitated.
"Simply that I was enticed there by a young man whom I knew in Paris, and found myself in the company of several men who were undoubtedly thieves. These men I described. I stated that I was pressed to act as their decoy, and on refusal was struck down."
"Then they will be already searching for the men!" I exclaimed, remembering that Warton had that morning gone up to consult his chief at Scotland Yard.
"They will be searching for men whose descriptions do not tally with those of my uncle and his friends," she whispered frankly, with a mischievous smile.
"Tell me, Lola," I asked, after complimenting her upon her astuteness, "do you recognize the names of Lavelle, Kunzle, Geering, or Hodrickx?"
She started, staring at me.
"Why? What do you know of them?" she inquired quickly, an apprehensive look upon her pretty face.
"They are associates of your uncle, are they not—in fact, members of the gang?"
"Yes. But how did you discover their true names?"
Then I explained how, after poor Craig's death, I had found the paper with the elaborate calculations, and the list of names with corresponding numbers.
"They are code-numbers, so that mention of them can be made in telegrams or letters, and their identity still concealed."
"And what were the columns of figures?" I asked, describing them.
"Probably either the calculations of weights and values of precious stones, or calculations of wave-lengths of wireless telegraphy in which Gregory experiments," she replied. "After a coup Gregory always valued the stolen gems very carefully before they were sent to Antwerp or Amsterdam to be re-cut and altered out of recognition. At one coup, a year ago, when at Klein's, the principal jeweller in Vienna, the night-watchman was killed and the safe opened with the acetylene jet. We got clear away with jewels valued at three-quarters of a million francs. Afterwards, I motored from Vienna to Antwerp, carrying most of the unset stones and pearls in the radiator of my car. The prying douaniers at the frontiers never suspect anything there, nor in the inner tube of a spare wheel. Besides, I was the daughter of the Baronne de Lericourt, travelling with her maid, therefore nobody suspected, and Kunzle, a young Dane, acted as my chauffeur."
"In which direction did your uncle travel?"
"To Algiers, by way of Trieste, and home to his hobby, wireless telegraphy. He has high aerial wires across the grounds of his villa, and can receive on his delicate apparatus messages from Clifden in Ireland, Trieste, Paris, Madrid, London, Port Said, and stations all over Europe."
"Can he transmit messages?" I asked.
She sighed slightly, her wound was giving her pain.
"Oh, yes. His transmitter is very powerful, and sometimes, at night, he can reach Poldhu in Cornwall."
"Then your uncle is, apparently, a skilled scientist, as well as a daring criminal!" I said, surprised.
"Oui, M'sieur. He is just now experimenting with a wireless telephone, and has already heard from Algiers, across the Mediterranean, to Genoa, where his friend, the man Hodrickx, has established a similar station. It was Hodrickx you saw at Spring Grove."
"And the wireless is sometimes used for their nefarious purposes, I suppose?"
"Probably. But that is, of course, their own secret. I am told nothing," was her reply, dropping into French. "Sometimes, when at home, my uncle sits for hours with the telephones over his ears, listening—listening attentively—and now and then, scribbling down the mysterious call-letters he hears, and referring to his registers to see whose attention is being attracted. Every night, at twelve o'clock, he receives the day's news sent out from Clifden in Ireland to ships in the Atlantic."
"It must be an exceedingly interesting hobby," I remarked.
"It is. If I were a man I should certainly go in for experimenting. There is something weirdly mysterious about it," she said with a sweet expression.
"If he can speak by telephone across the Mediterranean to Genoa, then, no doubt, such an instrument is of greatest use to him in the pursuit of his shameful profession," I said.
"I expect it is," she answered rather grimly, regarding me with half-closed eyes. "But, oh! M'sieu', how can I bear the future? What will happen now? I cannot tell. For me it must be either a violent death, at a moment when I least expect it, or—or——"
"Leave it all to me, Lola," I interrupted. "I'll leave no stone unturned to effect the arrest of the whole gang."
"Do be careful of yourself," she urged, with apprehension. "Remember, they intend at all hazards to kill you! Gregory and my uncle fear you more than they do the police. Ever since you unearthed that mystery in Brussels, they have held you in terror. The evidence you gave in the Assize Court against the man Lefranc showed them that you entertained suspicion of who killed the jeweller, Josse Vanderelst, in the Avenue Louise. And for that reason you have since been a marked man," she added, looking very earnestly into my face.
"I assure you I have now no fear of them, Lola. I will extricate you from the guilty bonds in which they hold you, if you will only render me assistance."
For a moment she remained thoughtful, a very serious expression upon her fair face.
"Bien! But if the men are arrested they will at once turn upon me," she argued. "Then I too will stand in the criminal dock beside them!"
"Not if you act as I direct," I assured her, placing my hand upon hers, which lay outside the coverlet.
Then, after a brief pause, during which I again looked straight into her great blue eyes, I suddenly asked—
"Where can I find trace of old Gregory? As soon as I am a little better I shall resume my investigations, and run the whole gang to earth."
"I do not know where he lives. My uncle once remarked that he was so evasive that he changed his abode as often as he did his collars. His office, however, is in Hatton Garden over a watchmaker's named Etherington, on the second floor. You will find on a door, 'Loicq Freres, Diamond Dealers, Antwerp.' Mr. Gregory Vernon, not Vernon Gregory, poses as the London manager of the firm of 'Loicq Freres,' who, by reason of their wealth and the magnitude of their purchases and sales, are well known in the diamond trade. So, by carrying on a genuine business, he very successfully conceals his illegitimate one of re-cutting stones and re-placing them upon the market."
"Good!" I said, enthusiastically, in English. "I shall endeavour to trace his hiding-place, for most certainly he is no longer in London, now that he knows that his attempt upon you was unsuccessful."
"And the police are now looking for mythical persons!" she laughed merrily, displaying her white, even teeth.
Yes, the more I saw of my dainty little divinity, the greater I became attracted by her, even though force of circumstances had, alas! compelled her, against her will, to become an expert jewel-thief, who by reason of her charm, her beauty, and her astuteness, had passed without suspicion.
What a strange and tragic career had been that of the frail little creature now smiling so sweetly at me! My heart went out in sympathy towards her, just as it had done ever since that memorable night when I had gripped her slim waist and captured her in my room.
The nurse entered, so I rose from my chair, and clasping Lola's little hand, bade her au revoir, promising to return again in two days' time, and also suggesting that when she became convalescent I should take her down to some friends of mine at Boscombe to recuperate.
My suggestion she adopted at once, and then I turned, and thanking the nurse for all her kindness, left the hospital.
When my doctor first allowed me forth on foot it was fully a week later.
I had driven to Brentford in a taxi on three occasions to visit Lola, taking her fresh flowers, grapes and other dainties. Each time I recognized a marked improvement in her.
I felt certain that every movement of mine was being watched, but neither Rayner nor myself could discover any one spying upon us. I had always flattered myself that nobody could keep observation upon me without I detected them, and I certainly felt considerable chagrin at my present helplessness.
Rayner, a shrewd, clever watcher himself, was up to every ruse in the science of keeping observation and remaining unseen. Yet he also failed to discover any one.
Therefore, one morning I left Carlos Place in a taxi and drove to King's Cross Station, where I alighted, paid the man, and went on to the main line departure platform. Thence I passed across to the arrival platform, so as to evade any pursuer, though no one had followed me to my knowledge, and then I drove down to Brentford.
Though still weak, I that afternoon accompanied the dainty little invalid down to Bournemouth, where I saw her comfortably installed with a very worthy family—a retired excise officer and his wife and daughter, living at Boscombe—and, after a night at the Bath Hotel, I returned to London to resume my investigations.
Through three days following I felt very unwell and unable to go out, the journey to Bournemouth having rather upset me in my weak state. Indeed, it was not before another week that one afternoon I alighted from a taxi at Holborn Circus and strolled leisurely down Hatton Garden in search of the watchmaker's Lola had indicated.
I found it with but little difficulty, about half-way down on the left-hand side.
A stranger passing along Hatton Garden, that dreary, rather mean street, leading from busy Holborn away to the poverty-stricken district of Saffron Hill, with its poor Italian denizens and its Italian church, would never dream that it contained all the chief wholesale dealers in precious stones in London. In that one street, hidden away in the safes of the various dealers, Jew and Gentile, are gems and pearls worth millions.
The houses are sombre, grimed, and old-fashioned, and there is an air of middle-class respectability about them which disguises from the stranger the real character of their contents. The very passers-by are for the most part shabby, though, now and then, one may see a well-dressed man enter or leave one of the houses let out in floors to the diamond dealers.
It is a street of experts, of men who pay thousands of pounds for a single stone, and who regard the little paper packets of glittering diamonds as the ordinary person would regard packets of seed-peas.
Many a shabby man with shiny coat, and rather down at heel, passing up the street, carries in his pocket, in a well-worn leathern wallet, diamonds, rubies or emeralds worth the proverbial king's ransom.
On that autumn afternoon the sun was shining brightly as I passed the house where "Gregory Vernon's" office was situated. Seldom, indeed, does the sun shine in Hatton Garden or in Saffron Hill, but when it does it brings gladness to the hearts of those sons and daughters of the sunny Italy, who are wearing out their lives in the vicinity. To them, born and bred in the fertile land where August is indeed the Lion Month, the sun is their very life. Alas! it comes to them so very seldom, but when it does, the women and children go forth into the streets bare-headed to enjoy the "bella giornata."
And so it was then. Some Italian women and children, with a few old men, white-haired and short of stature, were passing up and down the Road of Riches into which I had ventured.
I knew not, of course, whether old Gregory was still in London. He might be at his upper window for aught I knew. Therefore I had adopted the dress of a curate of the Church of England, a disguise which on many an occasion had stood me in good stead. And as I loitered through the road, with eyes about me on all hands, I presented the appearance of the hard-worked curate of a poor London parish.
Before the watchmaker's I halted, looking in at the side door, where I saw written up with the names in dark, dingy lettering, "Loicq Freres, Second Floor."
Beyond was a dark, well-worn stair leading to the other offices, but all looked so dingy and so dismal, that it was hard to believe that within were stored riches of such untold value.
I did not hesitate long, but with sudden resolve entered boldly and mounted the stairs.
On the second floor, on a narrow landing, was a dingy, dark-brown door on which the words "Loicq Freres" were painted.
At this I knocked, whereupon a foreign voice called, "Come in."
I entered a clerk's room where, at a table, sat a man who, when he raised his head and sallow face, I recognized instantly as the mysterious motor-cyclist of Cromer, the man Egisto Bertini, who had so cleverly evaded me on the night of my long vigil on the Norwich road, and who had assisted Gregory, or Vernon as he called himself, to remove the jewels from Beacon House.
He did not, of course, recognize me, though I knew his face in an instant. He rose and came forward.
"Is Mr. Gregory Vernon in?" I asked, assuming a clerical drawl.
"No, sare," replied the dark-eyed Italian. "Can I gif him any message?" he asked with a strong accent.
The reply satisfied me, for my object in going there was not to see the man whose real name was Vernon, but to get a peep at the unsuspicious headquarters of the greatest criminal in Europe.
"Ah, I—I called to ask him to be good enough to subscribe to an outing we are giving to the poor children of my parish—that of St. Anne's. We have much poverty, you know, and the poor children want a day in the country before autumn is over. Several kind friends——"
"Meester Vernon, he will not be able to make a subscription—he is away," broke in the Italian.
My quick eye had noticed that opposite me was a door of ground-glass. A shadow had flitted across that glass, for the short curtains behind it were inadvertently drawn slightly aside.
Some one was within. If it were Vernon, then he might have a secret hole for spying and would recognize me. Thereupon I instantly altered my position, turning my back towards the door, as though unconsciously.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you could subscribe a trifle yourself, if only one shilling?" and I took out a penny account book with which I had provided myself.
"Ah, no," was his reply. "I haf none to gif," and he shook his head and held out his palms. "Meester Vernon—he reech man—me, no! Me only clerk!"
"I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you will tell Mr. Vernon that the Reverend Harold Hawke called."
"Yes, sare," replied the expert motor-cyclist, whom I knew to be one of the clever gang. And he pretended to scribble something upon a pad. He posed as a clerk perfectly, even to the shabbiness of his office-coat. He presented the appearance of a poor, under-paid foreign clerk, of whom there are thousands in the City of London.
Standing in such a position that old Mr. Vernon could not see my face, I conversed with the Italian a few moments longer as I wished to make some further observations. What I saw surprised me, for there seemed every evidence that a bona fide trade was actually conducted there.
The shadow across the private office had puzzled me. I entertained a strong suspicion that old Vernon was within that room, and the man, Egisto Bertini, had orders to tell all strangers that his master was absent.
If he feared arrest—as no doubt he did, knowing that Lola might make a statement to the police—then it was but natural that he would not see any stranger.
No. I watched Bertini very closely as I chatted with him, feeling assured that he was lying.
So I apologized for my intrusion, as a good curate should do, and descended the dark, narrow stairs with the firm conviction that Gregory Vernon was actually in his office.
In the street I walked leisurely towards Holborn, fearing to hurry lest the crafty old man should be watching my departure. Having turned the corner, however, I rushed to the nearest telephone and got on to Rayner.
He answered me quickly, and I gave him instructions to dress instantly as a poor, half-starved labourer—for my several suits of disguise fitted him—and to meet me at the earliest moment at Holborn Circus, outside Wallis's shop.
"All right, sir," was the man's prompt reply. "I'll be there inside half an hour."
"And, Rayner," I added, "bring my small suit-case with things for the night, and an extra suit. Drop it at the cloak-room at Charing Cross on your way here. I may have to leave London."
"Anything interesting, sir?" he asked, his natural curiosity rising.
"Yes. I'll tell you when we meet," was my answer, and I rang off.
I have always found clerical clothes an excellent disguise for keeping observation. It may be conspicuous, but the clergyman is never regarded with any suspicion, where an ill-dressed man who loiters is in peril of being interfered with by the police, "moved on," or even taken into custody on suspicion of loitering for the purpose of committing a felony. England is not exactly the "free country" which those ignorant of our by-laws are so fond of declaring.
Having spoken to Rayner, I returned to the corner of Hatton Garden, and idling about aimlessly, kept a sharp eye upon the watchmaker's shop.
If my visit to the offices of Loicq Brothers had aroused any suspicion in the mind of Gregory Vernon, then he would, no doubt, make a bolt for it. If not, he would remain there till he left for his home.
In the latter case I should certainly discover the place of his abode, and take the first step towards striking the blow.
On the one hand, I argued that Vernon would never dare to remain in England after his brutal attack upon Lola, knowing that the police must question her. Then there was the tell-tale excavation in the garden at Spring Grove—the nameless grave ready prepared for her! But, on the other hand, I recollected the subtle cunning of the man, his bold audacity, his astounding daring, and his immunity hitherto from the slightest suspicion.
The flitting shadow upon the ground-glass was, I felt confident, his silhouette—that silhouette I had known so well—when he had been in the habit of passing the Hôtel de Paris, at Cromer, a dozen times a day.
The afternoon wore on, but I still remained at the Holborn end of Hatton Garden, ever watchful of all who came and went. Rayner was longer than he had anticipated, for he had to drive down to Charing Cross before coming to me. But at last I saw a wretched, ill-dressed, pale-faced man alight from a bus outside Wallis's drapery shop, and, glancing round, he quickly found me.
I walked round a corner and, when we met, I explained in a few brief words the exact situation.
Then I instructed him to pass down Hatton Garden to the Clerkenwell Road end and watch there while I maintained a vigilance in Holborn. When Vernon came out we would both follow him, and track him to his dwelling-place.
I told Rayner of Bertini's presence there as a clerk, whereupon my man grew full of vengeful anger, expressing a hope that later on he would meet the Italian face to face and get even for the treatment meted out to him on that memorable night at Cromer.
We had walked together to the end of the Road of Riches in earnest discussion, when, on suddenly glancing along the pavement in the direction of the watchmaker's, I recognized the figure of a well-dressed man coming in our direction.
I held my breath, for his presence there was entirely unexpected.
It was Jules Jeanjean.
The man of a hundred aliases, and as many crimes, was walking swiftly in our direction, and I only just had time to nip back and cross to the street refuge in the centre of Holborn Circus.
Rayner recognized him in an instant, and I had just time to exclaim—
"There's Jeanjean! Take him up, but be careful. Got your revolver?"
"Trust me, sir," Rayner laughed. "I don't forget Cromer."
"Be careful," I whispered, and next instant we had separated.
I saw Jeanjean gain the end of the drab thoroughfare and glance around apprehensively. He was dressed smartly in a well-cut suit of blue serge and wore a grey hat of soft felt, and a pair of yellow wash-leather gloves, like those poor Craig had habitually affected. His quick, shifty eyes searched everywhere for a few seconds, then he turned into the bustle of the traffic in Holborn and walked westward in the direction of Oxford Street.
A moment later Rayner, a poor wretched-looking figure, penurious and ill, crossed from the opposite side of the road and lounged slowly after Jeanjean until I lost them amidst the crowd.
I was divided in my intentions, for if I followed the pair I should miss the Italian clerk, and as he undoubtedly was a member of the interesting association, I felt that it would be judicious to follow and ascertain where he lived.
For nearly two hours, nevertheless, my vigilance remained unrewarded. Office-boys came forth from the various houses laden with letters, and middle-aged clerks carried in black bags packets of precious stones in order to insure them for transmission by post. Then as the dusk crept on, the offices and workshops in the vicinity emptied their workers, who hurried home by train or motor-bus, while in a constant stream came weary Italians, painfully and patiently dragging piano-organs and ice-cream barrows on their way to their quarters at the other end of the road, their day's wanderings over.
A perfect panorama of London life passed by me as I stood there watching in vain.
At length, about seven o'clock, when it had grown dark and the street-lamps had been lit, I saw the figure of the Italian emerge from the door, and turning his back towards me, he walked in the direction of Clerkenwell Road.
In eagerness I took a few quick steps after him, but halted as a sudden suggestion arose within me. If Jeanjean had been there it was for consultation with his chief—the man he regarded as his master—the master-mind of that daring and dangerous association. Was it possible, therefore, that these two men had left the place at long intervals, because of the suspicion in which they held the curate who had called for a subscription? Was it possible that Gregory Vernon, alias Gregory, and alias a dozen other names, no doubt, was still safe in his high-up dingy little office wherein lay concealed stolen gems of untold value?
Rayner was, without doubt, hot upon the track of the elusive bandit whose empreintes digitales, and whose cliches and relevés were so carefully preserved in that formidable dossier at the Prefecture of Police of the Seine. Rayner was a past master in the art of observation, and I felt convinced that ere long I should learn where Jeanjean made his headquarters in London.
Therefore, after a second's reflection, I decided not to follow Bertini, but to still remain on and watch for the clever old rascal to whose plots so many jewel robberies in Europe, with and without violence, were due. By some vague intuition I felt that if Jeanjean dared to go to the offices of Loicq Freres, then certainly the elder man would have no hesitation. But their daring was astounding in face of the circumstances.
Perhaps, so completely and entirely did they hold Lola in their grip, that they felt confident she dare not reveal the truth. Was it not a fact, alas! that the sweet, dainty little girl was actually a thief, forced into crime and trained by her uncle to act the part of decoy, her very innocence disarming suspicion? Her youth was her protection, for nobody would believe that she was actually a clever adventuress and a professional thief.
Ah! how I pitied her, knowing all that I did. How often recollections arose in my mind of that never-to-be-forgotten night in Scotland when she had inadvertently entered my bedroom, and I had seized her—of her piteous appeal to me, and of her expression of heartfelt thanks when I allowed her her liberty. Yes, assuredly Lola Sorel was to be pitied, not blamed. She had been struggling all along to free herself from those bonds of guilt which had bound her to that unscrupulous brutal gang of malefactors who were undoubtedly the most dangerous criminals in Europe. But, alas! all in vain. They had held her in their inexorable grip until, fearing lest she should appeal to me and make revelations, the sinister-faced old rascal who ruled them had ruthlessly struck her down and left her for dead.
Such a formidable band as that, constituted as it was, and with enormous funds at command, could hold the police in contempt. Money was of no object, and Lola had once told me how police officials, both in Berlin and in Rome, had been judiciously "squared" by a certain obscure lawyer who had an office in the Italian capital, and who, being a member of the gang, conducted their legal affairs—which mainly consisted in the obtaining of information concerning the whereabouts of jewels in the possession of private families, and in bribing any obnoxious police official, from a sous-prefet down to a humble agent.
Bribery among the Continental police is far more rife than is generally supposed. Poor pay, especially in Italy, is the prime cause. There are, of course, black sheep in every flock, even in England, but in the southern countries the aspect of the flock is much darker than in the northern ones. Many a law-breaker to-day pays toll to the police, even in our own London, and from the street bookmaker in the East End slums to the keeper of the luxurious gaming-house near Piccadilly Circus, hundreds of men are allowed to carry on their nefarious practices by sending anonymous presents to the private addresses of those who might trouble them.
So it is even in matters criminal. There is not a single member of the Criminal Investigation Department who has not been sorely tempted at one time or another. And perhaps in the light of certain recent prosecutions, and the allegations of Mr. Keir Hardie, big names—the names of certain men who are leaders of our present-day life and thought—are suppressed, and grave scandals concealed by the judicious application of gold.
My watch proved a wearying one, especially in my weak state.
With the darkness there were fewer people in the streets. The City traffic had now died down, and at eight o'clock Hatton Garden had become practically deserted.
I had been chatting to the constable on duty, who, on account of my clerical attire, had not viewed me with any suspicion, when of a sudden Rayner alighted from a taxi and approached me.
"Well?" I asked eagerly, when we were together.
"He gave me the slip, sir," exclaimed my man breathlessly. "He's devilish clever, he is, sir."
"You surely knew that before, Rayner," I said, reproachfully.
"Yes, and I took every precaution. But he did me in the end."
"How?"
"Well, when he left here, he walked as far as Gamage's very leisurely. Then he took a taxi up to Baker Street Station. I followed him, and saw that he took a ticket to Swiss Cottage, where he took another taxi along the Finchley Road, alighting at the end of a rather quiet thoroughfare of superior houses called Arkwright Road. He went into one of them, a new red-brick house, called Merton Lodge."
"You were near when he entered?" I asked.
"Quite. I watched the door open to admit him, but couldn't see who opened it," he replied. "Then I waited for nearly two hours, concealing myself in the area of an unoccupied house close by. The road was so quiet and unfrequented that I dare not show myself. The house seemed smart and well-kept, with a large garden behind."
"No one came out?"
"Nobody. But at last I grew impatient and got out on to the pavement, when, a few seconds later, the door opened, and a middle-aged, dark-eyed man came out straight up to me. He had a Hebrew cast in his features. Without ado, he asked me with indignation why I was watching his house. Whereupon I told him I was waiting for a friend who had entered there. In reply, he denied that any friend of mine was there. He said, 'I object to my house being watched like this, and if you don't be off, I shall telephone for the police, and have you arrested for loitering. I believe you intend to commit a burglary.'"
"Ah! that was rather disconcerting, eh, Rayner?"
"Yes, sir. What could I do? I saw I'd been spotted, and so the game was up. Well, a thought occurred to me, and I replied to him, 'Very good. Telephone at once. I'll be pleased to have a constable here to help me.' It was a bold move, but it worked. He believed me to be a detective, and his tone altered at once. 'I tell you,' he said, 'I have nobody in my house. Nobody has come in since I returned home at five o'clock. You may search, if you wish!' I smiled and said, 'Oh, so you don't now suspect me of being a thief?' 'Well,' he replied, 'if you think your friend is here, come over and satisfy yourself.'"