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"Cleek's Government Cases," A.L. Burt Co., New York, 1917
"Cleek's Government Cases," Doubleday, Page & Co., New York, 1917
"Now, my pretty, we'll have a dance and a song. Look up for a kiss."
IT was June—June with the world a-bloom, rioting with colour, fragrant as a lady's linen-chest, exquisite, golden. And of all spots most conducive to the full enjoyment of the month, a kindly Providence has created for that purpose the pleasant Thames Valley, where the river winds its idle way like a thread of silver, through golden pasture land and shady forest, and the sky above lies like a sapphire canopy over the sun-drenched splendour of hill and dale.
And it was upon just such an afternoon as this that Cleek, clad in the immaculate flannels that good taste, and better judgment, dictate for such weather, lay stretched upon a particularly green, particularly well-cared-for piece of lawn, shelving down to the river's edge, and breaking there into a riot of rose-foam that wound downward to the tiny landing stage. Beside him in a deck chair was Ailsa Lorne; and, some distance away, Dollops, engaged in polishing his latest acquisition, a huge brass telescope, which Mr. Maverick Narkom had given him, fortified his labours at very frequent intervals by the consumption of green gooseberries.
"A long job, eh, Dollops?" said Cleek, with a twitch of the head in his direction, and a healthy, happy laugh. For he was happy, was this man, happier than he had ever thought it possible to be. From now on, he need no longer adopt the disguise that had hidden him from a curious world, for with the renunciation of the throne of Maurevania for the sake of the one dear woman who sat beside him, had come simultaneously a slackening of the search parties of Apaches who had hitherto made his life an exciting and somewhat perilous game.
"Lor' lumme, sir," returned Dollops briskly, "she's a fair old turkey gobbler for polish, but she's a rare beauty, and it beats me why you can see every blessed object, large as life and twice as natural, as you might say."
Speaking, he put the instrument to his eye, and then gave out a little cry of dismay.
"It's a motor, Mr. Cleek," he broke out anxiously, jumping to his feet. "Don't go for to say it's Mr. Narkom a-coming to spoil the first blessed holiday we've had."
"I shouldn't be surprised," responded Cleek, with a rueful little laugh. "Eh, sweetheart? 'When you come to the end of a perfect day,' as the song says, you've got to face what the evening must bring forth. That's so, Ailsa, isn't it?"
For answer she looked up at him suddenly, a gleam of anxiety in her deep hazel eyes, for she feared to have the man she loved out of her sight for a moment, lest the Fates be tempted once more to snatch her happiness from her.
Presently the unmistakable hum of a swiftly driven motor fell only too plainly on their ears strained to catch the familiar sound, and Dollops sat holding his beloved telescope almost like a gun, as though he fain would repel the invader by main force.
Nearer and nearer drew the panting car, until they were able to distinguish its occupants.
A reassuring glance told Dollops that it was not the much-dreaded limousine of the Yard. Assured of this fact, he gave vent to a little sigh of ineffable relief, and snuggling down into the long, dry grass, returned to his labour of love.
But the car stopped short in the lane that led down to the private landing stage, and from it leaped a gentleman, tall and upright, with the mien and bearing of a soldier, and clad in the conventional afternoon dress of the well-born Englishman.
Cleek twitched his head round as the wicket gate groaned on its rusty hinges, and catching sight of the intruder, he jumped hastily to his feet.
"Count Irma!" he ejaculated in the sharp staccato of excitement. "This is an unexpected pleasure. I thought you had returned to—that is—left England." He stretched out a swift hand of welcome, and gave vent to a little sharp sigh.
The Count took that hand, bent over it, then drawing himself up, said sombrely: "No, Sire! I come to make a last appeal to your conscience and your manhood. Maurevania calls to you, Sire; must she call in vain?"
The smile had vanished from Cleek's lips at the sound of the first words, and simultaneously he linked his arm within that of Ailsa Lorne, who had also risen from her low chair, and now stood by his side, as if to ward off a hidden danger.
"I spoke my last word on that subject, Count, months ago," he responded smoothly yet with a latent sternness that brooked no questioning beneath. "Do not let us quarrel, my friend. Maurevania must do without me, as she has done, contented, all these long years."
"She has not! She has suffered, and suffered in silence!" retorted the Count with a sudden tinge of passion in his low voice. "Sire, I risk your displeasure. Kings are but slaves in another form; slaves to their duty, slaves to God himself, and I beseech you, do not fail us now in our hour of need. Maurevania looks to you for salvation from the yoke of the foreigner. Will you fail her?" The words came imploringly, in a swift rash of appeal, but Cleek raised a silencing hand.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, Count, if it means the loss of this dear woman by my side, who has rescued my very soul, drawn me up from the depths of hell itself. That resolution you cannot shake.
"A kingdom without this lady as rightful, recognized Queen, is out of the question. But a few short days now, and she will become my wife, beyond all thrones, beyond all earthly kingdoms save that which lies within the shelter of her own home. And there she will be queen indeed! I have no other answer to give you."
His hand fell, he drew back his head with something akin to kingliness in the gesture.
For a moment Count Irma looked at him, reproachfully, sadly, then with a suddenly acquired defiance, and bent his head. He knew the sentence had been passed.
"So be it," he said simply, in a bitter voice. "For the sake of a passing passion you have given over a nation to the horrors of civil war. Ruin, moral and financial, stares Maurevania in the face, and I must return to say that its rightful deliverer cares for naught but the love of a foreign woman!"
Then he turned upon Ailsa furiously, his face white with a passion of hatred that seared it as a branding-iron sears the horses' skin, leaving its ineffaceable mark.
"Mark my words, both of you, on my sword I will swear it—the sword with which I would have fought to the last drop of my blood for you—henceforth I will devote my life to the vengeance of that ill-fated people. You shall never marry this woman who has so blinded your eyes, and if your conscience will not aid you, then perhaps Maurevania herself shall speak to you."
He swung round suddenly, giving out a low, peculiar whistle. At its sound, from the body of the waiting car there leapt some half a dozen men, whose presence there had been hitherto unknown and undiscovered—Maurevanians, every man Jack of them, by the swarthy skin and deep-set eyes—who, at a signal from the Count, threw themselves on Cleek, and before Ailsa could utter so much as a sound or make so much as a single movement from the restraining hands of one, Cleek was bound hand and foot and bundled into the car.
So sudden had been the attack that apparently not even Dollops had realized the danger that his beloved master had encountered, for he had not made his presence known until Cleek's helpless body was lying prostrate in the car. Then he approached the Count, and pulling his forelock, said humbly:
"Beg your pardon, sir—Yer 'Ighness I means—but I could 'elp yer along of that party there if yer paid me for it."
"Dollops!" The cry came like a moan from the lips of Ailsa as she stood helpless in the grasp of a huge soldier.
"Money is money, miss," responded the youth sullenly, "an' as I 'appen to know which road Mr. Narkom an' 'is men are likely to be taking—"
The Count wheeled round on him.
"The police!" he cried. "Ah! yes, good lad! How much? Tell me the road and you shall be well rewarded."
"A couple of quid'll do me," was the surprising answer.
Then, almost before the words were out of his mouth, the coins were pressed into the grimy hand outstretched to grab them, and swinging round so as to avoid the scorn on Ailsa Lorne's face, the lad gazed thoughtfully up the distant road.
"Mr. Narkom (the old blighter) 'e's supposed to be in London, but between you an' me, sir, Yer 'Ighness, beggin' yer pardon, 'e's at Oxford, on a special job, and we expects him every hour. Starting now, as yer might say. I could take yer some short cuts, and you'd show a clean pair of 'eels."
Count Irma nodded sharply and motioned him to a front seat in the big car, well satisfied with the deal. Then he turned to Ailsa, who stood sobbing some distance away, her face covered with her two hands, and the whole heart of her tortured and broken.
"Mademoiselle," he said suavely, "the move is mine. His life depends entirely upon his consent. Escape is impossible, and were it otherwise, your own life would pay the penalty. I do not war on women if I can avoid it. So, mademoiselle, I bid you adieu."
With a gallant bow he swung upon his heel, replaced his hat, strode quickly over to the waiting motor, and stepped into it. Then, in the semi-silence of that perfect afternoon, the car slid out noiselessly into the road leading toward London and the things that lay ahead, leaving behind it a weeping woman, and a desolation that was as deep as it was absolute.
MR. MAVERICK NARKOM sat in his private office at Scotland Yard, intent on reading the reports of the afternoon, with a cigar stuck between the fingers of his left hand and the open window sending a little breeze fluttering across the untidy desk. He looked up suddenly, as the sound of hurried footsteps without struck in upon the lazy silence of the afternoon, and wheeled round in his seat.
But if he had expected to see Lennard, or any of the staff of Scotland Yard, he was doomed to disappointment. The door opened and closed gustily, there came a swirl of woman's skirts, and the astonished eyes of the Superintendent fell on the last person he expected to see. It was Ailsa Lorne, white and shaking, the unrestrained tears coursing down her anguished face, as her trembling lips struggled to frame the words to tell her plight.
"Miss Lorne; why, God bless me... what is wrong?" gasped the Superintendent. "Come, come; tell me—it is not—"
"Yes, yes, he's gone—gone!"
"Gone! Good God! do you mean Cleek? Not dead!"
She gave out a little sob at that, then strove pitifully to regain composure, finally getting out some of the facts, and as the Superintendent realized what the danger meant to his beloved ally and invaluable detective, he collapsed into a chair, with his face hidden in the palm of an upthrown hand, and his eyes wet with tears.
"Cleek! My God! and we thought.... But who was to think of Count Irma?" he muttered at last, in a heart-wrung voice. "They'll never dare to touch a hair of his head! They can't! And after all the precautions, to be taken like a first offence safe-robber! Gad! but he shall be found, Miss Lorne. I swear it! I swear it! The whole kingdom shall be searched, house to house, so that he shall return to us at last!"
His eye fell on the telephone and, fairly flinging himself upon it, he seized the receiver in one shaking hand and let a stream of words issue from his pale lips, his face white now as Ailsa's own.
In precisely ten minutes' time there wasn't a railway station, port, or terminus but was on the lookout for all suspicious characters. Then a red and perspiring Mr. Narkom turned to Ailsa and put out a shaking hand.
"It is Dollops I can't understand," he broke out bitterly, replacing the receiver. "If only I could get an explanation of him; it seems so impossible, so unlike the lad."
Even as he spoke, there came a tap at the door, it opened inward, and Hammond stepped into the room, removing his hat and standing at attention.
"Well?" rapped out the Superintendent, in the sharp staccato of anxiety. "What is it? What do you want?"
"Beg yer pardon, sir, for disturbing you, but I thought you ought to know; it's something to do with Mr. Cleek."
"Cleek!" flung out the Superintendent sharply. "Speak up, man! If it's a clue, speak up!"
Hammond "spoke up" forthwith.
"I was on point duty, just off Kensington High Street, sir," he began, "when a motor-car passed, exceeding the speed limit something awful. I tried to stop it, but to my surprise young Dollops was on the front seat, and when 'e sees me, 'e puts his 'and in his pocket, says something to a foreign-looking chap on the seat beside him, throws me this, and they drives on quicker than ever."
Mr. Narkom snatched "this" from the outstretched hand. It proved to be a scrap of paper twisted round a sovereign. The coin fell unheeded from Mr. Narkom's shaking fingers, however, for it was the grimy scrap of paper that he clutched. On it were the scrawled words: "God's sake and Cleek's, take this to Mr. Narkom, Scot. Yd. Car L 404. Dollops. Safe."
"What does it mean?" cried Ailsa, her hands clinging to Mr. Narkom's arm. "Tell me, Mr. Narkom! For God's sake, what does it mean?"
Mr. Narkom's eyes fairly gleamed.
"The bully boy! The splendid lad! Got him as safe as houses!" he retorted with half a laugh and half a sob. "Thought it was a funny thing if that young shaver turned out a crook. That's the number of the car, Miss Lorne, so don't you worry. We'll have Cleek back again safe and sound before you can turn round."
He said no more, simply turned back to the telephone, stopping only to toss the sovereign over to Hammond as he told him that Cleek was in danger, and instructed him to find the car of that number.
It did not take long to ascertain that L 404 belonged to the Ritz Hotel, and even as the news was borne to Narkom the clanging of his bell brought not only the porter, but Lennard himself, who had just heard the news.
"The limousine, as quick as you can. What's that? Ready? Good man! To the Ritz, then." He dashed to a hook on which hung his hat and coat; grabbing them, he beckoned to Miss Lorne, and flung open the door. "If only we're in time! If only it's possible to save him! Come on, Miss Lorne; come on, my dear, to Cleek's victory!"
Miss Lorne "came on" with such a surprising suddenness that three minutes later the blue limousine shot out of the precincts of the Yard, and took the distance between it and Piccadilly at a mile-a-minute dip.
The arrival of the well-known car and its still more familiar Superintendent brought the manager on the scene, only too willing to answer such inquiries as the English law, embodied in the portly person of Superintendent Narkom, should demand of him.
"Count Irma of Maurevania? Of a surety, yes, he was staying here, occupying one of the finest suites the hotel offered. Yes, he would send up and ask for an interview...."
Mr. Narkom, his cheeks pink with suppressed excitement, mopped his forehead briskly. His foe could not escape him, for all round the Ritz was drawn a cordon of plain-clothes men, on the alert for all out-goers, and the Count himself should be held hostage for the man he had kidnapped.
The few minutes which elapsed seemed like hours to Ailsa, her fears yet unallayed, despite her companion's optimism. The return of the manager brought with it therefore no disappointment to her.
"But an hour ago, monsieur," he said with many bows of solicitude, "I find that one of his equerries was taken ill while out driving, and the Count himself, like the kind master he is, drove him away to a hospital. He will return later."
Mr. Narkom's banished fears arose in all intensity. Only too well did he know how many chances there were of Count Irma's return. Money would be sent, but Irma himself would not come; he was already making his way out of the country with all expeditiousness, and, with him, Cleek. To search the hospitals was, of course, futile; they had come up against a blank wall, and the Superintendent met Ailsa's agonized gaze with a mute appeal for a renewal of her faith in his resources.
Without further delay they passed out into the courtyard, and were back on the pavement beside the limousine, when a paper-boy, to all intents and purposes bent on selling them the latest edition of the evening paper, sidled up closer and whispered to Mr. Narkom:
"A chap said 'e was Dollops, sir, if you're Mr. Narkom—paper, sir?" he broke off; "paper, sir? Buy a paper?"
"Yes, yes!" gasped the Superintendent, feeling for a coin.
"If you come 'ere, I was to give you this and get a shillin'."
The shilling appeared forthwith, and with the copy of the paper Mr. Narkom clutched another and still grimier scrap than that other one he had received.
Instantly his eyes were on the alert. He glanced down at it, without seeming to do so, and read these words: "Tower House at London Bridge Docks, sailing to-night. 6. Dollops. He's awl rite."
With one excited nod, Mr. Narkom fairly wrenched open the door of the limousine, and waving Miss Lorne inside, leaned over to Lennard.
"The docks at London Bridge," he said excitedly. "As fast as you can streak it, Lennard, my boy! For Mr. Cleek, for me! We've got to get there before six, or it's all up."
"Right you are, sir!" responded Lennard heartily.
Then, with a glance at the little clock before him: "Half an hour! Crumbs! but it's a close shave." Then they were off and away at a pace that ate up the distance like a cat lapping cream.
But the age for miracles is over, and no motor can beat time for speed. Try as he might, it was just ten minutes after the hour had struck when Lennard brought the car up to a somewhat deserted-looking house at the rear of a disused landing stage to which they had been directed. Evidently Count Irma had had his plans all cut and dried before taking the final motor ride into the pleasant Thames Valley. It was not yet dusk, and even as they gazed up the expanse of the river they could distinguish a long electric launch making its way to the sea, and carrying with it the man they both loved, beyond hope, beyond redemption, beyond everything that made life worth living.
Mr. Narkom sucked in his breath helplessly, then switched round on his heel.
"The police launch, quick! Follow me, Miss Lorne. You stay here, Lennard, with the car. You may be needed. Come!" The Superintendent panted off, and a few minutes later he was telling as much as was necessary to the head of the River Police.
In the swiftest launch obtainable they took their places. There was a whirr, a shaking of the whole boat, then it swept out, on the race against time, as though it were a living thing, cognizant of the reason for its mad haste.
Mr. Narkom sat with clenched hands, breathing with great effort, until they again saw the trail of the escaping boat, when he gave a little shout.
"Faster, man! Faster! Don't let it escape! For God's sake overtake it!"
And overtake it they did. Heading the launch round so as to get directly in the way of the boat, the police officers hailed it, bidding it stop, in the name of the law. But there came no slackening of speed. The hunted boat was simply swerved aside, and sped on its course apparently undaunted.
"No use, Mr. Narkom, sir," said the police officer in charge. "There's only one thing—wireless. Stop her at the mouth of the Thames."
Darting down into a cabin, he closed the door, and a few minutes later Mr. Narkom knew that the chase was practically over. The launch would be overhauled by the police boats at the mouth of the river.
Summoning as much patience as it was possible, Mr. Narkom prepared for the wait, with Miss Lorne at his side.
The launch was still in sight when they came up at Gravesend, and from both sides of the shore there came a little fleet of boats. Seeing that escape was impossible, the boat slackened her speed, then came to a dead stop and Mr. Narkom, with the officer, made his way on board.
To his keen delight, he was greeted by Count Irma himself, who was highly indignant and demanded explanations for the chase and the outrage of being overhauled.
To Mr. Narkom's supreme dismay, a systematic search revealed not the slightest trace of the two they sought. From deck to cabin, from end to end, every corner of the boat was subjected to closest scrutiny, but in vain; there was no sign of Cleek or of Dollops, nor was there any suspicious sight or sound. Indeed, it began to look as if they had been led on a wild-goose chase. The Count, who accompanied them, his dark face now darker still with anger, looked triumphant as they once more entered the gloomy little cabin, while the perspiration stood out in great beads on Mr. Narkom's forehead. Ailsa Lorne's face was tense with disappointment as they turned to go up once more to the deck.
His eyes gleaming, Count Irma raised a lantern, and proceeded to show his unwelcome guests up the companion-way. As its light flashed round, it lit on a familiar object, the very sight of which sent the blood coursing back to Ailsa's heart, and caused her fingers to grip feverishly on Mr. Narkom's arm.
The sight was no less than Dollops's precious telescope. With superhuman self-control she succeeded in drawing the attention of the Superintendent to it, at the same time motioning him to be silent. The effect on Mr. Narkom was instantaneous. He stopped short, and sucked in his breath, for he, too, realized what its presence meant. But it took all his caution to prevent him crying aloud in his relief and jubilation.
As it was, he strode up the narrow steps with jaunty mien, and rejoining the River Police on deck, delivered his ultimatum to the Count, who awaited him impatiently.
"Well, Count, we've made our search," he said in imperturbable tones, "and everything is quite all right. Still, my orders are very strict, and since you are merely in a hurry to catch up with the packet boat, you will have no objection, I feel assured, to taking our police launch, which is able, as you are now aware, to go even faster than this. I will return in this one to London Bridge."
Count Irma's face grew livid with rage, and he resented this fresh proposal with all the language at his command.
But Mr. Narkom remained obdurate. The launch and its owner were subject to the commands of the English law. His own boat was at the Count's command; a hasty signal from one of the officers brought the launch alongside again.
The Count was evidently nonplussed, to say the least of it, but seeing no chance of escape, he finally accompanied the River Police into their launch, leaving the beaming Superintendent and Ailsa Lorne to make the return journey alone.
The other boat had been barely set in motion when Mr. Narkom turned and plunged down the stairs again. Once more with Ailsa they made a detour of the boat, calling aloud the names of both Dollops and Cleek. It was Ailsa again who came to the rescue. Pulling aside a tarpaulin thrown carelessly down at the extreme end of the boat, she saw a series of newly drilled holes, and it did not need the sight of the boards, barely joined together, to tell her what they concealed.
She gave a little cry which brought Mr. Narkom to her side at one swift jump, and the two proceeded to tear up the boards. A few seconds, and the fast-fading light in the summer sky revealed the bound and gagged figures of the two they had sought so arduously.
The journey back was one in which very little was spoken, after the few words of praise for Dollops, whose quick-wittedness and apparent defection had been so successful.
"I reckon we're quits, you young monkey," said Cleek, stretching out a hand to his young henchman.
"Not in this life, Guv'nor, Gawd bless yer for all yer've done for me," was the fervent reply, and, at the pressure of Cleek's hand on his, he grew very, very still.
It was quite dark when they disembarked at London Bridge, and having seen the launch in the care of the River Police, made their way to the limousine, where Lennard waited. He gave a little whoop of delight as his eyes fell on Cleek and Dollops.
But it was not until after Cleek had seen Ailsa safe at an hotel, and he himself Was on his way with Mr. Narkom to the riverside cottage that he referred to the subject which lay uppermost in their minds.
Then with a curious smile looping up one side of his face, he said quietly:
"This is but the first throw of the dice, old friend. Do not mistake. I am at the Yard's service now and henceforth, but our journeyings together will be accompanied by the hate of Irma, as well as the vengeance of Margot. This is but the beginning; the end, who shall say?"
A silent grip of the hand was all that Mr. Narkom gave in answer, for he, too, was alive to the danger which must now dog their footsteps. He did not rest content, therefore, until he had seen Cleek and Dollops safe in the cottage which served them for a temporary home. Then he returned to town through the soft coolness of the summer night, but though Cleek was once more within the reach of the protecting arm of the law, the Superintendent's heart was heavy within him.
AFTER due reflection over the question of disguise, Cleek determined for the present to revive that of Lieutenant Deland, and it was as that smart young officer that he once more took up his quarters in Clarges Street, in a house not very far from that which had been wrecked by Margot and her gang of Apaches. That they, too, were on his track was ascertained by Dollops, who traced them down to their lairs of Soho like a bloodhound scenting his quarry.
Despite the danger which surrounded him, Cleek insisted on having the rest of their riverside holiday with Ailsa Lorne and Mrs. Hawkesley, who had returned from India on a short visit, in the interests of her little son, Lord Chepstow. Mrs. Hawkesley had been spending her summer on a houseboat with Ailsa Lorne, that friend who by enlisting the aid of Cleek had saved her son's life and given her her newly found married happiness by the sale of the sacred tooth.
Dollops then was the happiest of mortals when, having polished and repolished his beloved telescope, on their return from the riverside retreat, he was given the morning to polishing the mirrors in the great dining-room of Clarges Street. Now, if there was one thing he loved more than another, it was a liberal use of "elbow grease," next, of course, to that ever-present delight of satisfying his appetite, and it was with much relish that he set out to undertake the task. So it may be readily understood that his sensations were not those of unmixed delight when, just as he had got the mirrors thoroughly moist, an imperative postman's knock brought him to earth, literally as well as metaphorically. Tumbling down the high wooden step ladder, he flew to answer the door.
"Orl right, orl right!" he ejaculated, as a still more violent assault took place. "I'm not a blooming caterpillar; only got two legs, you know, like the rest of us."
"Bit of a hurry—I don't think," answered the postman sarcastically, as he handed in a brown cardboard box similar to those sent out by most florists, and marked with all the usual precautionary labels.
"Don't let the lieutenant's buttonhole fade before you take it to him, will you?" And with this parting shot the man departed, leaving Dollops for once too busy reading the half-obliterated stamp to give full rein to his usual gift of repartee.
"Lor' lumme!" he soliloquized, as he ascended the staircase, three steps at a time, and rapped at the study door. "Another flower from Miss Ailsa, bless 'er! An' won't 'e just jump at it!"
And jump at it Cleek did. He was writing his usual morning letter to her, but at sight of Dollops's smiling countenance his face lit up, and he fairly snatched the box from him in his hurry.
Meanwhile Dollops, with commendable tact, turned to flick away a particle of imaginary dust on one of the picture frames, and smiled knowingly.
But only for a moment. Came suddenly the sound of a cry, half curse, half snarl, which sent the lad spinning round like a top, and the sight of Cleek's distorted face froze his very marrow.
"Gawd's truf, guv'nor, but what is it?" he gulped breathlessly, running over to his master and peering anxiously down into the agonized face.
The beads of perspiration stood out upon Cleek's forehead, his fists clenched at his sides.
"The devils! The infernal devils!" he cried fiercely, shaken out of himself by the awfulness of the thing that lay before him. "By Heaven! but they shall suffer for this! Ailsa, my dear, my dear!"
He lifted the little cardboard box from the table, and held it toward Dollops with a look of almost petrified agony. The boy gave vent to a hysterical scream, for, even as he looked, he saw that it contained a finger—a woman's finger—slender and exquisite, encircled with the Maurevanian ring which Cleek had replaced upon Ailsa Lorne's hand such a few short months ago at the Embassy. The box was lined and padded with snowy cotton wool, a fit resting place for precious though grim a treasure.
"Miss Lorne?" he gulped, passing a hand across his eyes in terrified amazement. "O, Lor' lumme, sir, don't go to say it's 'er! Oh, don't say it, guv'nor, for Gawd's sake, don't!" He snatched up the piece of crested paper which had fallen from it, and scanned it eagerly, feeling at such a time as this that he was one with his master. It bore these words: "With Count Irma's compliments. Miss Lorne releases the King from his engagement, and he will do well to take up his duties immediately, lest worse befall her."
A chalky pallor overspread Cleek's face. His eyes narrowed. "Never!" he rapped out furiously, hitting his hands together and breathing hard, like a spent runner. "From this day I live to avenge myself! Dollops, the 'phone, quick! Ring up Mr. Narkom, and get him to speak to me. Quick as you can, for God's sake!"
It was barely half an hour later when the limousine, travelling at a mile-a-minute clip that sent the police of the neighbourhood blinking and winking like a cat in the sun, dashed up Clarges Street, and drew up before the particular house in that particular row that was owned and lived in by Lieutenant Deland. A somewhat perturbed and crimson-countenanced Superintendent sprang out upon the pavement, flinging a few hurried words over his shoulder to Lennard.
"Leave both doors open, Lennard," he said hastily, grudging the time it took to give instructions. "Don't know which side he'll come in, but don't take any notice. I'm doubtful these days. Then make for the Thames cottage, and drive like the wind. Miss Ailsa is in danger."
Lennard gasped, and then nodded.
"Leave it to me, sir."
Then Mr. Narkom sprang up the stone steps, to find Lieutenant Deland waiting for him, and Cleek's agonized eyes looking out of the frame of his face.
He made no effort to speak, merely beckoned the Superintendent and disappeared, and a second later appeared again, and followed Mr. Narkom down the steps to the limousine, handing him the little cardboard box, with its horrible treasure, as he entered the car.
The Superintendent opened it, then groaned aloud.
"Curse them!" he broke forth excitedly, as the car leaped forward and went thundering off into the distance ahead. "I'll hang 'em, every one, if my life goes for it. The beasts! The devils!" His voice broke, and trailed off into silence; he put a hand out, and touched upon the shoulder the crouching figure in the corner. But Cleek never stirred, never moved, merely sat there with bowed head, while both hands covered his face, and his shoulders drawn up like a whipped thing.
Then the Superintendent leaned forward, and picked up the speaking-tube.
"Streak it," he instructed Lennard; and "streak it" Lennard did, for the car went scudding through the traffic at as mad a pace as the law would dare to wink at.
Soon they were passing down a narrow hawthorn-hedged lane, field-edged with waving grasses that swayed idly to and fro, and, half way down this, came in sight of another car, standing empty and disabled. The feet of the chauffeur showed grotesquely from beneath it, and the sound of hammering punctured the silence that lay about them.
Lennard flashed a look of mute apology over his shoulder, as he was perforce obliged to slow down; and Mr. Narkom, feverish with anxiety, unlatched the door, and stood ready to descend. It was impossible to pass the disabled car, unless it were pushed right into the hedge.
"Curse the thing!" muttered Mr. Narkom, furious at the unnecessary delay. "Just one minute, my dear chap, and I'll settle it." He did not wait for Cleek to answer, but jumped from the limousine, and went stamping off in the direction of the other car.
Finally, in answer to Lennard's angry demands, the chauffeur decided to come out, and out, too, came something else, for with a paralyzing suddenness, breaking on the calm of the summer morning, shots rang out from behind the flowering hedges, burying themselves in the limousine's front tire with remarkably good aim. And before so much as a word of warning could be uttered, the car itself was surrounded by a crowd of dark, swarthy men, muttering and talking among themselves in some strange, outlandish language which Mr. Narkom rightly assumed to be the Maurevanian native tongue.
Hearing this, he spun upon his heel, and with a great fear in his heart went pelting back to the limousine, and thrust his head inside the open window.
"Cleek," he said swiftly, with a little tremor in his tones. "Save yourself, for God's sake!"
But too late. For even as he spoke a couple of men bore down upon him, seized him ruthlessly about his ample waist line, and slung ropes around him, binding him close.
He cursed, he spluttered, he fought bravely and well, hitting out with his fists as they swarmed about him. But the numbers were too unequal. He succumbed, and even as he fell his eyes saw Lennard bound and gagged also, and his heart went out to Cleek in an agony of misgiving.
Yes, there he was! Cleek! Cleek, his pal, his friend, the person he loved best in all the world. They had thrown a cloth over his head, and were bearing him toward the other car, which, for some reason, seemed now to be in perfect working order. The whole miserable plot lay bared before the Superintendent's eyes. He twisted over on his side, and choked uncomfortably. There were tears in his eyes, so that he could barely distinguish the figures that kept passing to and fro in front of him.
At last they were all gone, babbling and laughing triumphantly as the car sped off in the direction of London.
"God!" cried the Superintendent mentally, in a very anguish of soul. "Take care of him! Take care of Cleek, for if he is hurt, I swear he shall be avenged!"
The purr of the car dropped off into the distance, and a silence followed. The sun was scorchingly hot; the Superintendent's forehead streamed with perspiration; every second seemed an hour. Then, as if from some spot quite near him, came a sound that nearly caused his heart to stop beating. It was impossible! Incredible! Just the murmur of a soft laugh, and before he could so much as lurch his heavy weight over in the direction from which it had come, Cleek, Cleek himself, by the powers! stepped out from the limousine, and came toward him, smiling.
"Well played, well played!" said he softly, as he whipped out a pocket-knife, and cut the Superintendent's bonds. "It was a close enough shave, though! I suspected as much. It was a shame to give you such a bad quarter of an hour, dear friend, but there was no other way."
"Cleek, you're safe! Oh, thank God, thank God!"
The Superintendent's voice broke and was silent; he staggered to his feet, and clutched Cleek's hand as a drowning man might clutch at a floating spar; his heart was in his eyes. He drew a shaking hand across them.
"Come," said he, "let's get Lennard free, too. It's too hot a day to enjoy such close captivity. Then we must get on as quickly as possible. There's none hurt, thank fortune!"
"No, none hurt, as you say, and that's something to be thankful for, in all conscience," said Cleek, as having freed Lennard, he drew Narkom's hand in his arm and walked over to the limousine. "But I think I've done for 'em this time, anyway. They were as much taken in with Master Dollops as you were. But the boy's safe enough. He'll take care of himself. When those devils find out who it is, they'll start hot-foot on my trail again, and run straight into Hammond and Petrie and a posse of others. I rang up the Yard, dear friend, after I had rung up you. I suspected a trick, and I knew the kind I was dealing with. But it was warm under that seat, I can tell you! What's that, Lennard? Got the tires on already? Bully boy! Bully boy!" He sprang into the limousine, followed by a puffing, breathless, somewhat incoherent Mr. Narkom. Then, with a bound like a mad thing, the car plunged forward, and proceeded upon its journey without further mishap.
But there was no sign of Ailsa Lorne when they reached the cottage, and Cleek's heart sank within him when Mrs. Condiment related how her young mistress had gone off "in a grand motor, with a splendid gentleman, with medals all over him, sir, just like my friend, the sergeant."
"Count Irma himself!" rapped out Cleek in answer to this. "He's tricked her somehow. I might have guessed they would hit at me through her." He turned on his heel, and crossed over to the latticed window, looking out with anguished eyes. A minute passed in silence, then a tapping sound attracted his attention. There was a pigeon outside the casement window. He threw open the window with a cry of delight.
"It's a message, a message from her dear self!" he cried, as he pounced upon the bird and whipped a tiny fold of paper tied with yellow silk from its leg. "It's from Ailsa, Mr. Narkom, from Ailsa! Listen!" The words "imprisoned—Sir Lionel Calmount—safe," he read; then looked up into the Superintendent's face with thankful eyes.
But the Superintendent was not so grateful. "Yes, but where is that?" he bleated despairingly, scanning the paper eagerly.
"Wait!" rapped out Cleek. "Calmount, Cal-mount," he gave a little yap of pleasure, like a terrier that has just seen a rat—"Calmount! Lionel Calmount, Irma's English chum! I've heard of him often; one of the old school—noblesse oblige, and all that sort of thing. And as for letting a poor devil of a monarch marry anything but a princess of the Royal blood—oh, dear, no! Yes, our friend Count Irma knew his man when he sought Calmount's help. But we'll be even with the lot yet. He's got a place in Hampshire, Calmount Castle, I think; that will be it, or else the pigeon couldn't have done the journey." He rushed over to the bookcase. "Here's a road map. Come, let's see! I don't doubt that Lennard will do it all right."
And Lennard did "do it," for in a few minutes the limousine was once more upon its way, with Cleek and Mr. Narkom seated inside it, and the road map in Cleek's hands. Now and again he gave hasty instructions to Lennard through the tube, watching with eager eyes how the distances fell away.
The Superintendent laid a hand upon his arm. "I say, dear chap," said he doubtfully, "but isn't it a bit risky putting your head into the lion's mouth like this, eh?"
"I'd risk fifty fives for her dear sake!" snapped out Cleek sharply, his eyes upon the fleeting vista of fields that swept by the window, "but it's all right, Mr. Narkom. Down with the blinds, and switch on the electrics, and we'll see what Lieutenant Arthur Deland from the Embassy can do with the matter. That'll be best, I think."
Mr. Narkom thought so, too, and said so. For the next half hour the two men worked feverishly, and so it was that Lieutenant Arthur Deland stepped out upon the stage, and found himself playing as strange a part in the drama of existence as had ever fallen to his lot.
IT was exactly five o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun was beginning to think of retiring from business, when a dusty, travel-stained limousine drew up at the lodge gates of Calmount Castle like a snorting, puffing horse, and demanded entrance.
"Who are you and what do you want?" demanded the shambling old gatekeeper, in a cracked voice.
"We want Sir Lionel Calmount," threw in Mr. Narkom excitedly. "Open the gates, my good fellow, as quickly as you can. The matter is urgent, cannot be delayed."
But the "good fellow" was in no great hurry to accede to this demand. He hemmed and hawed for some moments, scratching his thatch of white hair with a horny hand, so that Cleek felt, in the unnecessary delay, a strong desire to leap out and shake the sense into him. But at sight of the flash of gold in Mr. Narkom's palm his actions quickened. The transferring of that same gold piece to his hand caused immediate obedience, and the limousine was soon gliding comfortably up the long drive toward Calmount Castle, and the fulfilment of at least one part of the quest that had brought them here. The great front door stood wide open, and in the frame of it was a tall, erect, white-haired gentleman staring down at them blankly from beneath shaggy eyebrows. Cleek stepped forward, and removed his hat.
"Sir Lionel Calmount?" he said politely. "We come on account of Maurevania. Will you give us a hearing?" He thrust out the Maurevanian ring, and at sight of it the old man changed colour.
"If you have much to say," said he, leading the way to a small drawing-room at the rear of the building. "What do you want with me, sir? And what is the business you have come upon?"
"I want the release of your prisoner, Miss Ailsa Lorne," rapped out Cleek sharply, meeting the keen eyes with his own. "She is under the protection of the British Government, and Scotland Yard has come to take possession of her and bring her safely back home."
Sir Lionel clicked his teeth together.
"Impossible! Miss Lorne is... well, to speak perfectly plainly, she is not in possession of her senses, sir. She is mad."
"Mad! Not unless you have driven her insane with your atrocities. For God's sake, let us see her, lest I do you an unjust injury, Sir Lionel. I beg of you to take me to her at once!"
The old man switched round and looked at him keenly.
"Who are you, that you ask this of me?"
"Deland, Lieutenant Deland," Cleek made answer, "and responsible for the safety of the lady you have so foully injured!"
Sir Lionel's ruddy face went dough white; he shut his hands together and breathed hard. "Injured?" he bleated incredulously. "Injured, my dear sir? I have done Miss Lorne no personal injury, I assure you. She has greatly endeared herself to my wife and to me by her gentleness of disposition, and we feel only a great grief at the terrible thing that has deprived her of her mind. But as for any personal injury; you speak in riddles."
Mr. Narkom looked at Cleek; Cleek looked at Mr. Narkom. The old man's words rang true. There was a great light shining in Cleek's eyes.
"If you will come this way," went on Sir Lionel, and the two men followed him silently through a long hallway, into what was probably the music room, for at one end of it stood an organ and at the other a piano. Seated before it, playing softly to herself, was Ailsa, with her dear hand unblemished, but bare of the ring that Cleek had first put upon her finger many months before. She looked up, and seeing Cleek dressed as she had seen him so often, rose to her feet and came running toward him.
"Lieutenant Deland!" she cried, putting out her hands impulsively, "this is indeed a surprise. So you discovered me, and come to take me back home again? Why, and you, too, Mr. Narkom? Ah, but this is too good to be true!"
With a little ejaculation of relief Cleek caught the small hands in his.
Mr. Narkom drew the attention of Sir Lionel, and tactfully contrived to leave the two together.
"Count Irma came for me," whispered Ailsa, under cover of the conversation. "He told me you had sent for me to come to the Embassy, and I was to send on your ring as a sign that I was well; an officer in another car took my message to you while I packed. Luckily they never noticed my new leather-covered travelling basket for the pigeons that you gave me. Dear things! They did not know of what invaluable use they were to prove, otherwise they would have taken it from me. But I smuggled it into the back of the car, and contrived to get it out when no one was looking. Then I was driven straight here, and Sir Lionel and his wife were told I was mad! Mad, mind you!"
Cleek pressed her hands in his, too thankful at her escape to care aught for his own danger.
"Come, let us get away," he said. And Narkom turned at the same time. "I must get back to London, Sir Lionel. I think I have convinced you that you have been fooled and deceived. How serious the consequences might have been I need scarcely say. But if Count Irma returns—"
"He will be refused admittance," said Sir Lionel sternly. "I am not to be made a catspaw, as he will see. You and your friend are as safe here as in the King's palace itself. It is late. I beg you to stay, if only for the night."
Narkom looked at his ally dubiously, but Cleek was gazing in turn at Ailsa, and it seemed to him as if her eyes signalled "Yes." And accordingly, some five minutes later, the dazed but delighted Lennard was being led off for a welcome meal and rest, while a party of five were soon seated round the dining table, Cleek laughing as happily as if Maurevania and all its troubles were at the bottom of the sea, now that he knew Ailsa was safe, and that the whole thing was but a malicious plot to entrap him.
An onlooker would have deemed it the most commonplace of country dinners, for it was not until dessert was reached that anything untoward occurred.
Just as the door opened to admit the butler with this course, the house rang from end to end with the sound of laughter, harsh, malicious, utterly mad. Lady Calmount looked at her husband with blanched cheeks. Then she sprang to her feet; she was shaking as if with the ague.
"Lionel, Lionel, that dreadful laughter again!" she cried hysterically, forgetting all else but her terror, her unutterable fear. "Oh, my boy, my boy! God help us all! What is to be done?"
Sir Lionel laid a steadying hand upon her arm. His own face was pale, but he remembered the presence of strangers, and sought to calm her.
"Hush, hush, my dear!" he said persuasively, pressing her back. "It is some servant, some trick. You must not pay any attention to it. What's that, Miss Lorne? Smelling salts? Oh, thank you very much. That will be best. There, there!" He smoothed Lady Calmount's pale cheeks with a tender hand, his own face as white as hers.
Ailsa looked up at Cleek. Then she nodded her head.
"Tell him, dear Lady Calmount, tell the lieutenant. He can help you, if any one can," she said softly in her low, sweet voice. "What is the meaning of that awful laughter? I heard it last night, and I really thought you had a mad person under your roof. So if there is anything to tell...."
"Oh, there is, there is!" broke in Lady Calmount despairingly. "You tell them, Lionel; I can't. I can only think of my boy's danger; he is coming to his death, I know he is, and it is too late to stop him! Oh, it is cruel, cruel! What shall I do? What shall I do?"
There was a pregnant silence; then, with a look of mute pity at his wife, Sir Lionel cleared his throat.
"This must be all inexplicable to you, Lieutenant Deland," he began haltingly, wiping his face with a silk handkerchief, "but I will try to explain. We are in very great trouble. Within the year both my younger sons have been killed, I might say murdered, in some mysterious, diabolical manner by some agent that works by supernatural powers; there is no other possible explanation. They have, been done to death, though showing no sign of wound or poison, just as that laughing gypsy swore that the sons of our house should die, when she cursed them root and branch."
"Hallo! Hallo! what's that?" said Cleek, sitting up sharply, and dropping his table napkin. "A gypsy's curse and the sons of the family dying mysteriously! That's melodramatic, surely!"
"God help us! It is indeed," said Sir Lionel. "There is only my eldest son left now. He has been abroad, or else Heaven knows but what he, too, might now be lying with his ill-fated brothers. It is all so inexplicable, and yet so appallingly true! You can understand how I dread to see Edward enter the castle gates."
Cleek pulled down his brows and pinched up his chin.
"Hum-m-m! I can quite believe it," said he. "But what has the curse to do with that sound we have just heard? For I presume that you have no insane inmate."
"No, no! That is the forerunner of death—her gypsy ladyship's laughter. I will try to explain. As you, perhaps, know, we are a very old family, one of the first to bear arms with King Richard the Lion-hearted in the Holy War, and we have been settled here in this castle more generations than I can count upon my fingers. Our menfolk have always married women of their own class."
"Noblesse oblige," murmured Cleek, with a whimsical smile, as he met Mr. Narkom's eye.
"Exactly," murmured Sir Lionel approvingly. "All except one. Sir Humphry Calmount, in seventeen-sixty-something, made a second marriage, and mated with a beautiful gypsy girl. It was believed that she was of Spanish descent, but, as a matter of fact, she was one of a travelling band of gypsies who settled on the waste lands just outside the castle gates. Well, to cut a long story short, Humphry Calmount fell in love with her and married her. For a time all went well. Her portrait was painted by—"
"Sir Peter Lely," interposed Cleek. "Of course, of course! I remember now. 'The Laughing Girl' was the title he gave it. I saw a print of it only a short tune ago."
"Yes," said Sir Lionel, with a shudder. "Her laughter rang incessantly through the old walls, and he got to hate it, just as we do to this day. Well, one day, in a fit of rage, he struck her, and I believe a fearful scene followed. It ended in the lady pulling out a dagger and stabbing herself. Just before she died she cursed the house up and down and ended by declaring that whenever her laughter rang through the castle some disaster should befall one of its sons."
"Hum-m-m!" said Cleek, "am I right in presuming that at different times a wild death, that is to say, a sudden death, has occurred, Sir Lionel?"
"At least once in every generation."
"But a coincidence, surely," threw in Ailsa, her eyes on Cleek's face. "I cannot believe that a dying woman's utterance could have any effect, after all these hundreds of years. Can you, Lieutenant?"
"That's what Wentworth says," moaned Lady Calmount, wiping her eyes with a wisp of real lace, gossamer as a fairy's cobweb. "He is my nephew, you know, Lieutenant Deland, and our heir, after Edward, to the family estates. He has had trouble, poor fellow, and is staying with us for the present, until his plans are more settled."
Cleek's mouth grew grim. Yes, he had heard of the "poor fellow's" trouble. It had something to do with card playing, with a prompt resignation from the army following shortly after.
"Tell me," said he quietly, addressing Sir Lionel, who was watching him with great intentness, "was he here when your two sons died? I do not wish to probe into family affairs, but only, if you will permit me to help you to unravel this strange affair. And a few facts are necessary. Was Captain Calmount here with you at that time?"
Sir Lionel bowed his head.
"He was. But why do you ask? He was our great prop and comfort."
"You called in the police, of course?" said Cleek, apparently ignoring the last sentence.
"Well, no," admitted Sir Lionel, turning scarlet. "The fact is, as Wentworth said, neither of the lads was over-strong, and Dr. Marsh had advised them to be kept quiet; for that reason they were allowed the run of the house, and spent a great deal of their time in the picture gallery."
Cleek lifted his chin. His face wore a curious look.
"Tell me," said he, "did they Dr—meet then-death in the picture gallery—at the same time?"
"Within six months of each other. Harold fretted terribly, and he must have had a fatal attack of heart failure, for his heart was naturally weak; he probably just managed to crawl to the picture when death overtook him. Dr. Marsh was very good to us, and Wentworth did what we all considered to be for the best. I see you are suspecting my nephew of having some connection with that foul deed. I tell you it is impossible. He cared more for those two younger lads than Edward himself; indeed, that is what they quarrelled about." He stopped short, as if regretting having spoken.
"What's that? They quarrelled? What about?" Cleek demanded imperatively.
"Wentworth never did get on with Edward, from boyhood upward," put in Lady Calmount. "But he did care for my poor darlings, and in his brusque way he blamed Edward for going abroad on a pleasure trip, the very one, in fact, from which he is now returning. If anything happens to him—" She stopped abruptly, and let the rest of the sentence go by default.
But Cleek got to his feet, and rubbed his hands together, smiling a little. "I should like to have a look at Her Laughing Ladyship, if it's not too late and it wouldn't trouble you too much, Sir Lionel," he said.
"Certainly, certainly," replied Sir Lionel, and promptly led the way into a long, comparatively narrow gallery, in the middle of which, in fact, right opposite to the door, was a picture, roped off from too close inspection by a dark red, silken rope.
Sir Lionel held up a candle, and proceeded quickly to light others.
"So that's her Laughing Ladyship, is it?" said Cleek, gazing curiously up at the brilliant Spanish beauty smiling down into his eyes.
"You beauty, you!" he apostrophized her. "Have you lured those boys to their death, or is it a trap?" His eyes wandered first to Sir Lionel, who appeared to be watching him almost too eagerly, then around the gallery. Then he turned:
"Nothing to be learned here to-night, Sir Lionel. So it's no use wasting any more time. I don't mind having another look round in the daylight. Ton my word I don't wonder you get superstitious up here. Let's get down into the fight again. I feel quite creepy."
"I very rarely come here myself," said Sir Lionel, with a bitter laugh. "The place has hateful memories."
He stopped suddenly and shook his head. Then, snuffing the candles about the spot, turned on his heel and led the way downstairs once more.
As they passed the music-room door, there came the rich strains of the organ playing the grand choral, "Now Praise We All Our God," so that the house was filled with the sound.
Cleek paused and lifted his head. "A grand thing," he said softly, "a great and grand thing; and the man who can play like that is fit for the angels indeed."
"And that is as true a thing as was ever spoken," put in the baronet, with a sigh of genuine delight. "It is Gaston Calmount, a distant cousin, who lives with us. Poor lad, he is humpbacked, but he is as dear to us as a son."
"Another prop, eh?"
But Sir Lionel did not hear. He had opened the door, and now, coming toward them from the organ, was the figure of the hunchback, with a face that was as beautiful as the angels he emulated.
"Uncle Lai!" he murmured tenderly, his soft-toned voice shaking with emotion, "I heard the laughter; I heard, I tell you. Surely now you will take action? You will not let our own Edward be murdered by that devil incarnate! You will not, you will not!"
"Hush, hush, Gaston," struck in Sir Lionel hurriedly. Then, as the boy drew back, ashamed of his outburst, and sent a startled look up into Cleek's face, he explained: "These gentlemen are detectives, Gaston. This is Lieutenant Deland, and he is going to try to protect our lad."
"The police! Oh, thank God!" The boy—for he looked but little more, although he must have reached manhood some time before—fairly flung himself at Cleek, and laid a trembling hand upon his arm. "Oh, save us, Lieutenant! Save us!" he cried despairingly, "before he kills us all. It is Went-worth's hand that has done the dastardly deed. It is his wicked desire to become master here that is at the root of it. He has hushed up the first two, but, mark my words, Edward will be killed in some way or other. It is not for nothing that he has been poring over the medical books in the library. Oh, yes, I know; I watched. I may have done wrong, but Edward is as dear to me as though he were my own brother, and if anything happens to him—"
Cleek gave vent to a low whistle of surprise. "Medical books, eh? Queer literature that for an officer, Sir Lionel!"
"I've heard of queerer," broke in Sir Lionel fiercely, with a sudden display of temper. "I can't believe it, and I won't. It is one of Gaston's foolish notions, simply because he hates Wentworth. That is all it is."
"Steady, steady," said Cleek softly, with a quick smile. "Circumstantial evidence isn't the best rod to lean on, though I'm inclined to think you're right. Anyhow, we're all safe for to-night, and, to tell you the truth, Sir Lionel, I'm getting deuced tired. I... I...." he turned suddenly, sniffed the air, then gave vent to a tremendous sneeze. "There's a draught somewhere. I think, if you would make my adieux to the ladies, I would like to retire."
"Certainly, certainly." The baronet hurried off, as if glad to escape from further parley with so curious an individual. And, left to himself, Cleek turned to the bowed figure of the hunchback, and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"My dear young sir," said he briskly, "why didn't you wait till you got me alone before breaking out like that? So you want Mr. Edward to escape death, do you?"
The other looked up.
"Then you believe it, too," he said abruptly, not answering the question.
"Don't shadow of doubt," responded Cleek. "You leave it to me."
Then, turning upon his heel, he yawned wearily, wished the boy a sleepy "Good-night," and followed Mr. Narkom up the broad staircase to their allotted rooms.
CLEEK'S desire to see Captain Wentworth Calmount was speedily granted, for they met at the breakfast table next morning. Cleek guessed instinctively that the captain was inwardly very wroth at the turn of events. He laughed rudely when his aunt timidly volunteered the information that Lieutenant Deland had offered to unravel the mystery.
"There's nothing to discover," he declared, in a loud, grating voice. "One of the servants must have played a trick on you while I was out last night." He glared at the Superintendent. "They know all your superstitious ways, Aunt Helena, from A to Z, and most likely have taken advantage of that fact; still, if it pleases you to tell every one your family history, it's nothing to me."
"Pleases, Wentworth! How dare you say such a thing!" ejaculated Sir Lionel angrily, glaring at him in amazement. "I think you forget yourself, sir, when you address your aunt like that. Lieutenant, sit down."
The meal proceeded forthwith, and Cleek, in the presence of Ailsa, found himself making a big breakfast. Afterward he announced his intention of thoroughly examining the picture gallery by daylight. The whole party filed up to it, talking and chattering as they entered the gallery. Here the sun shone with full brilliance, and as Cleek stood with the handle of the door still beneath his fingers, a shaft of sunlight glinted upon the face of "The Laughing Girl." Then, his shoulders hunched, he gripped the knob firmly, and his mouth set into a thin, hard line.
"Idiot!" he ejaculated forcibly, "blithering idiot that I am! I might have guessed, I might have known!"
"Guessed what?" demanded Gaston interestedly, staring up into Cleek's face with round eyes. "Struck an idea, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, rather! There's no fireplace, you see," he explained, as the rest crowded about him, "and it doesn't look as if these windows are ever opened."
"They are not," said Sir Lionel. "I had them screwed down so there should be no chance of burglars getting in; some of these pictures are of priceless value, you know. I had ventilators put in the wall, and it is the duty of one of the maids to pull the ropes outside in the passage every morning so as to air the gallery thoroughly."
"H'm-m-m—yes, I see," put in Cleek, with a jerk of the head. "That is to say, if these ventilators were not opened, for some reason or other, it would be possible to be suffocated? Oh, no, it wouldn't." He stooped suddenly as his eye caught something at the lower left-hand corner of one of the pictures. "I see you've taken care of that. Here's a hole for ventilation purposes, I presume?"
"What! Impossible!" chimed in Sir Lionel and the captain in one breath.
"Well, I'm blest," said the captain, "so there is. Too big for a mouse hole. Funny we never noticed that before."
"Anyhow, it's no use for ventilation," threw in Sir Lionel nonchalantly, "for it leads right into one of the bedrooms, yours, too, by the way, Wentworth." And he stared at the captain with a strangely startled expression.
Gaston shot a meaning look into Mr. Narkom's face.
"Well, what of it?" demanded the captain irritably. "There's no crime in a hole being in the wainscoting, surely?"
"Not a bit!" said Cleek. "For one thing"—he went down on his knees and sniffed audibly—"it's not an old hole, but one newly bored; new wood smells, don't you know? That's a mouse or a rat hole." Then quite suddenly he seemed to find it difficult to rise. "Oh, Lord. I'm getting stiff in my legs. Old age, eh? Give us a hand, Mr. Narkom. Thanks. What's that? No, no clue at all. Shan't want to come in here again. Let's have a look at these rooms on the other side of the gallery. Yours, captain, and yours, too, Master Gaston, if you don't mind."
They didn't; but beyond establishing the fact that the mouse hole had apparently led right through into Captain Calmount's room, the good lieutenant appeared to be absolutely stumped for a few minutes. Then: "Bully, why didn't I think of it before? Wait a minute. I've a book in my bag that's got a similar kind of story. Some of those writing johnnies, don't you know, aren't half bad."
He was gone before any one could utter so much as a word, and Mr. Narkom's eye lit up, scenting a clue. But the Superintendent was doomed to disappointment, for barely two minutes later Cleek returned looking the picture of sorry dejection. "Can't find it," he said glumly, "must have left it in the limousine. Mr. Narkom, you might nip down and ask Lennard if it is there. Here's the title. I know you'll forget it if I don't write it down."
When Mr. Narkom came back, Cleek turned quickly.
"Did you find it?" he asked rapidly, biting his words off short.
"Yes, yes, you were quite right, dear chap; here it is." He handed over a small red book; but after a glance at its cover, Cleek seemed to lose entire interest in it. He spun around upon his heel.
"It is not always the dog that barks the loudest that fights the best," he went on quietly in a low, even voice. "I'm sorry to have to hurt you, Sir Lionel, but justice is justice." And all in a minute those who were watching him saw a strange thing happen; saw him turn and spring like a crouching lion upon the figure—not of Captain Calmount, but of the twisted, misshapen hunchback, saw him grip the huge shoulders in his two hands, and heard his voice ring out sharp and clear.
"Got you, got you, by Jupiter!" And even as Sir Lionel sprang forward, with a little angry cry, there came the sharp click-click of the handcuffs, and the boy lay snarling and cursing, no longer a white-faced angel, but a writhing, furious thing, biting and struggling.
"You Judas, you!" snarled Cleek, as he leaned over him and surveyed the distorted face. "You beast! To kill the little lads who trusted you—to betray your own flesh and blood!"
"Man alive!" cried Sir Lionel, leaping forward. "What are you saying? It's impossible, utterly! What had he to do with it?"
Cleek surveyed the baronet with stern eyes. "Everything!" he snapped. "Everything! Perhaps you'd like to hear Her Ladyship laugh once more?" He ducked under the rope, and pushing in one of the little carved acorns which ornamented the frame, stood back.
The effect was startling: peal after peal of laughter rang through the hall. Then, as the others in their excitement surged up to the silken rope, Cleek looked down at the handcuffed figure of the hunchback who was watching them almost breathlessly.
"No, you little devil, you, it is quite safe. They won't all fall down, stone-dead, without a sign or mark, as your poor cousins died. See!" He picked up the red rope, and let it drop to the floor with a metallic clang. "I have had the current disconnected."
Lady Calmount gave vent to a little moaning sound, and stared piteously up into Cleek's face. "What does it mean?" she cried.
"It means, dear lady," said Cleek gently, "that it was all part of a plot. He wanted to make himself the heir. Did it never occur to you or to Sir Lionel that, providing he could only continue his crimes without discovery, he could stand in your son's place? He comes from the French branch of the family, does he not? And your life, your sons', and Captain Calmount's stood between him and this inheritance. Look! I will show you the secret of Her Ladyship's laughter. But there will be no more 'wild deaths' in the family, Sir Lionel." He whipped out his knife, and inserting it between the frame and the oak-panelled wall, caused the whole picture to slide down gently. A deep, hollow recess revealed itself, in which was seen the big brass funnel of a gramophone.
"Here's our 'Laughing Girl,'" he said swiftly, lifting out the instrument and setting it down upon the floor; "and now you can set her laughing when you like. As for you—" Cleek turned to the prisoner, but at sight of him he gave a little cry and darted forward. For the boy was lying in a little crumpled heap, with head dropped and eyes shut.
Cleek bent over him. Then, of a sudden, he straightened himself, and passed a quick hand over his eyes.
"Dead," said he. "Dead, poor, malicious thing! Dead before the rest of his malice could find its way out. Heart, I suppose. Couldn't stand the shock of discovery. Off with the handcuffs. No one ever need know. Put back the picture, Sir Lionel, and call up the servants, and let the outside world understand that the boy died suddenly. After all, it's the best thing that could have happened."
He picked up the limp, lifeless body, pillowed it in his strong arms, and then, at a word from Sir Lionel, passed out into the bedroom, and laid it gently upon the bed. Ten minutes later he telephoned for the doctor.
"HOW did I come to discover it, Mr. Narkom?" said Cleek, an hour later, as they sat together in Cleek's bedroom and the Superintendent was once more questioning him, while Ailsa made ready for her departure.
"Oh, quite a simple riddle, dear chap. I suspected electricity from the very first; only thing possible to kill like that, and always in the same place. Then when I picked up a shred of yellow flexible wiring on the staircase, that 'gave me to think,' as our French cousins say. On top of that came the unmistakable smell of that insulating material called 'Chatterton,' not after the poet, Mr. Narkom, but its inventor; while the sight of that red cable acting as a rope to guard the picture—which was just a metal copper cable, and coloured red, a live wire, in fact— gave me the whole truth. I was uncertain at first whether it was Gaston or the captain who had committed the crime, until I remembered that there was a framed genealogical table in the library; that gave me the clue. That new hole bored through to the captain's room was too obvious, and, besides, Gaston was so over-anxious to fix the blame on his cousin, that when I found every medical book in the library thick with dust, I began to have my doubts. Then I felt pretty certain that that locked cupboard in his room contained batteries, and I was right, was I not, Mr. Narkom?"
"As you always are, dear chap!" put in that gentleman with a glance of admiration.
Cleek sighed and stretched himself. Then, at the sound of a light footstep on the stair, picked up his hat and went swiftly out of the room.
"She's ready!" he called excitedly, like a wild schoolboy. "She's ready, forsooth! And now back to London and home. I'm anxious to know about Dollops, Mr. Narkom, and to assure myself of his safety. Ready, Ailsa? Ready, Mr. Narkom? Ready, the pair of you? Good-bye, Sir Lionel, and good luck. The son will come home to you safe and sound. No, don't thank me; you have taken care of Miss Lorne, that is sufficient for anything I have done. Good-bye, captain; and apologies for any undue rudeness. Good-bye, all of you. Now, then, Lennard, quick as you can, my boy."
Like a mad thing the car leaped forward and went spinning down the long drive, out through the great gateway and on into the soft, green distances ahead. The sun was like fire in the sky, the day was warm, and summer in her merriest mood; the trees swam past the windows of the car like rivers of green.
Within the limousine, with eyes alight, Ailsa was listening to the old, old story from Cleek's lips, and laughing now and again as she glanced tenderly down at the Maurevanian ring upon her finger, while the Superintendent, with commendable tact, gazed from his window at the changing country, and tried to let them think they were alone.
"HOW did I come to suspect the young hunchback?" said Cleek, as they rushed through the coolness of the summer night, leaving Sir Lionel Calmount still dazed with the unexpected revelation of human duplicity, but happy, too, in the relief from all future danger.
"Well, as a matter of fact, I did not give him a thought; his feeble body and innocent look stood him in good stead, as he had invariably banked on. It was only when I came near him and caught the familiar scent, that I knew, and when I saw the marks on his finger I was certain. What's that, Mr. Narkom? What marks? Why, of the Chatterton; and the odour is peculiarly clinging. That is the stuff with which he had joined the flexible electric wire round the picture. Still, I didn't know but what he was an innocent tool of the captain's, until he mentioned that medical book. If you carry your mind back, dear friend, you will remember that he said the captain had taken it from the library. The book was certainly missing from there, but it happened to be in his room, and not the captain's. That's where the point comes in. The rest followed naturally." He looked out as the car turned into the station from whence the London express would whisk them to the metropolis and back into the maelstrom of that evening's pleasure seekers. Lennard and the limousine were to come on at their leisure. Briskly the little party took their places in the train and prepared for a somewhat lengthy journey.
"I think an evening out will do us all good," said Ailsa, presently, with a little sigh, "and Lady Chepstow—Mrs. Hawkesley I mean (somehow, the old title still fits her best), she, I know, will be only too glad of a change. Suppose you come back to dinner, and take us out afterward?"
"The very thing," put in Mr. Narkom briskly. "Berkely Square is, if I remember rightly, on Petrie's beat this week, and I shall feel safer if I know you are under his eye. And, as I have promised myself a night off with Mrs. Narkom—" He smiled at Cleek, who nodded back at him happily. Seated by Ailsa's side, with her hand lying in the crook of his arm, the world spelt happiness complete. Even Count Irma and the menace of the Apaches were far distant. He lived for the moment in the lap of a glorious reality.
The journey's end reached at last, he saw Ailsa safely into a taxi, and promised to be with her in a short half hour. Then bidding good-bye to Mr. Narkom he turned on his heel and forged ahead through the stream of traffic that surged in and out of Charing Cross station. Foreigners there were always in plenty, but to Cleek, absorbed though he was in the narrow escape of the woman who represented the whole sum of human happiness to him, there seemed an ever-increasing number of Frenchmen in the moving medley of humanity. It brought a frown to his brows, and his mouth puckered into a network of tiny creases that boded ill for any one who might cross his path and his temper at that particular moment.
But long before he had reached the safety of Clarges Street the magic of London had exerted its soothing power; the old philosophical outlook returned and the grimness departed, for, after all, and despite everything, God was in his heaven, as the poet sang, and "all's right with the world."
Of a sudden he gave out a happy laugh and swung round the corner of the street, glancing up at the house wherein he had taken up his lodging till he and Ailsa should find themselves a more suitable apartment. At the very thought of what was to follow, his heart sang with happiness. But in his room all was dark; no light met him on the landing, the place was silent and deserted. Dollops had not yet returned.
On the table in the dining-room stood the remains of a meal that would have been ruinous to the strongest of digestions—a menu in which Dutch cheese, pickled walnuts, jam puffs, and monkey nuts figured conspicuously. Cleek laughed aloud at the sight of the disordered table.
"Only an ostrich could digest—" he commenced, but the sentence died on his lips unfinished.
Of a sudden his mouth fell open, he screwed round at the sound of the door being opened cautiously, and Dollops's face, the colour of new dough, peered in on him in the half light, like an eerie spirit.
"Gawd's truth, guv'nor, it is you, is it? I've got back!" ejaculated that individual with a sigh of relief. "Thank the Lord for that! I wasn't in 'arf a funk since those blessed foreign johnnies went through this place only this afternoon! Look at it, sir, look at it! Fair makes you sick!"
Cleek did "look at it," as Dollops switched on another electric, and the curious, one-sided smile travelled up his face.
That something had been "wanted" was more than evident, for every article had been turned out of drawer and box and lay in one disordered heap in the centre of the floor.
"What were they after?" he rapped out sharply.
"Lumme, that's what I asked, when I saw 'em wiv my own blessed peepers," Dollops gave back excitedly. "But I gives 'em the slip when they was ready to be off again and 'id in a cupboard. And 'ere I am."
But Cleek had vanished through the open door leading into his bedroom, and Dollops's voice came to him dimmed by the distance. "Them blooming Apaches," said he angrily, "they're all over the place, and buzzing like a nest of hornets."
Cleek gave out a little laugh and peered at him through the open door.
"Well, what of that? Surely you're getting used to them by this time? All you've got to do is to see that these rooms are kept locked while I'm away. Though what in the name of fortune should make Count Irma desire to go through my property like this?"
Speaking, he drove his hand into the pocket of the coat he had worn all day, his fingers touched a little metal object, and in a sudden fever of enlightenment he grew very still. It was no less than a ring, the false ring of Maurevania, which Mr. Narkom had withdrawn from the dead finger that had given him such an agony of anguish.
"Oho!" said he, a curious look passing across his grim face. "He looked for the proof of his crime, did he? So, Count Irma, there are others besides myself who will demand a reckoning for this day's work."
He replaced the ring in his dress-coat pocket, and completed his toilet in silence.
Ten minutes later, leaving Dollops on the watch, and as alert as a terrier over a rat hole, Cleek sallied forth, his own nerves keyed up to concert pitch by the presence of an ever-increasing danger. Few would have recognized in the immaculately clad gentleman who took his seat at Mrs. Hawkesley's dinner table a short while later the effeminate young officer who had so lately looked upon the borderland of tragedy and averted a still greater one by the power of his wonderful mind; and only those few could be numbered as the ones who knew.
IT was precisely an hour later that they were seated in a private box at the Alhambra, for Mrs. Hawkesley had chosen that place of amusement, the Captain having promised to join them from the club. And the performance was halfway over when the little flurry caused by the entry of fresh people made Cleek look down idly into the stalls. The sight of two occupants there gazing back at him in a sort of atrophied hatred, which included Ailsa as well, drove a little spasm of fear through his heart. Let them do what they like to him, let them trap him and kill him, or torture him, as the fates provided, but let one hair of her head be touched, and he would show them that the very demons of hell could be let loose for one man's service and one man's gain. No less the familiarity of the two, Count Irma and the pretty lady at his side, clad in a shimmering, gauzelike material that was like the lining of a sea shell, and with the diamonds flashing in her dark hair, caused him to give vent to a little exclamation of surprise.
"Margot!" he ejaculated, arid at the sound of that name Ailsa turned swiftly to where his eyes rested, and met those of Margot fixed on her with all the insolent hatred that was at the creature's command.
She clenched her hands as she gave out a little cry of dismay.
"The two together!" she said in a low, terrified voice. "What does it mean?"
"Mischief," flung back Cleek sharply. "That's what it means, Ailsa, mischief."
Of a sudden came the swift opening of the box door, and Captain Hawkesley entered. Cleek was upon his feet instantly.
"In the very nick of time, Captain," he said in a low, smooth voice. "You have often expressed a desire to make us quits. Here, then, is your opportunity. Take this seat; Ailsa will explain. I haven't time; but for God's sake keep your face unseen. The game will be up if they recognize you. Quick, Ailsa, another of your roses, dear, like mine here; this one I cannot part with." He smiled whimsically as Ailsa obediently placed one of the Chatenay buds in the Captain's empty buttonhole. "And one of your orchids for me, Mrs. Hawkesley. Now, fix your attention on the stage—"
"But you—" broke in Ailsa with a little gasp of despair.
"I am safe enough. I can disguise myself when necessary. Have no fear." Speaking, he turned abruptly. The door flashed open and flashed shut again. And even Ailsa, who knew the secret of his peculiar birthright, found it difficult to conceive that the French Apache of the better class, with the orchid in his buttonhole, who swaggered into the stalls a minute or so later, was the man who had just left them.
That he succeeded in deceiving Margot was only too evident, for she was seen to introduce him with many shrill laughs and shrugs of her white shoulders to Count Irma, and the three were soon in deep confab, oblivious to the entertainment on the stage, or of the disapproving glances of their immediate neighbours. It seemed an eternity, though in reality it was but a short half hour, before the last curtain fell; and as the strains of the National Anthem floated on the heated, smoke-laden atmosphere, Ailsa gave a little sigh of mingled dread and relief.
Of Cleek there was no sign when they reached the crowded vestibule, nor of the French Apache with the orchid, though it seemed to Ailsa as if the whole place had been filled with Parisians, all gay, eager, and alert.
Close beside them as they stood on the curb outside stood a ragged, dirty-looking creature, darting here and there like a hungry sparrow to pick up the few pennies that the occasional calling of a cab earned him. "'Ere y'are, miss, keb, keb!" he said briskly, jostling against Ailsa and with set purpose separating her from Mrs. Hawkesley.
"I don't wish a cab," she responded coldly. "I am with friends. I—"
Of a sudden, to her utter consternation, she was borne out into the street by the crush, and she found herself surrounded, not by a mixed crowd of homeward-bound theatre-goers, but, men who, despite their evening clothes, were obviously Frenchmen of the "Boul' Miche'."
She turned to go back, but the way was barred. Panic seized her and she tried to call out. Instantly one of the number thrust himself forward, and spoke to her with a leer on his evil face:
"Leave la petite to me, I'll have her. Come quick, before the cracksman discovers her loss—"
Like a flash a path opened, and she was carried off her feet by the vehemence of the attack, and bundled into a waiting motor which was driven away just as a portly figure turned the corner of Leicester Square at the head of a posse of police.
"Mr. Narkom!" Ailsa managed but one cry before her cloak was twisted over her mouth and her voice dulled to silence. Where in God's name were they taking her? What had happened? Where were Cleek and the Hawkesleys? Surely they would discover her before it was too late!
But they did not discover her, and it was not until the motor came sharply to a standstill in Hyde Park that a voice reached her through the folds of the cloak about her face and head.
"It's all right, guv'," said that voice, with comforting familiarity. "Not a bloomin' Apache in sight. Done 'em a fair treat this time. Orl right, Miss Lorne?"
It was Dollops, and, dearer still, Cleek, her erstwhile abductor, behind him, his eyes alight, his face glowing! She gave out a little cry and stretched her hands to him in bewildered abandonment. He caught them in his own.
"I had to let you be frightened, dear one," he said, in a low, tender voice. "There was no other way. They might have guessed otherwise. But I was lucky, for I managed to 'phone to Mr. Narkom, who should just catch Margot, if he's quick, and then appeared in time to whisk you off before the others got you. Dollops"—he threw up the window—"can you drive the car down to Hampton Court?"
Came a low whistle, followed by a chuckle of satisfaction. "Lumme, sir, just you try me," said that worthy promptly. "The houseboat'll be the very thing for us now, and Miss Ailsa, bless 'er 'eart, will be as right as rain with old Mother Condiment. Orl right, sir."
Then with a purr of the engines, the great car was off and away to the old Thames Valley, whizzing along at a splendid pace, while Cleek and Ailsa, within it, entered for the time being into their paradise together.
BUT Mr. Narkom was unfortunately too late. Margot and her compatriots had vanished like snow beneath the sun, and the Superintendent was left once more to curse his luck upon not being on the scene of action.
And it was not until a few days later that he was actually made aware of Cleek's hiding-place, though, thanks to a hasty message sent to Mrs. Hawkesley, he knew that both his charges were safe. However, upon the third morning after that fateful visit, Mr. Narkom got his letter. He mopped his forehead with a brand-new silk handkerchief, jerked down his cuffs and straightened his tie, as befits the "Yard's gentleman" when in performance of the Yard's duty, and went down and out to where the new limousine, a bright blue affair with trimmings of stone gray, awaited him in the courtyard below. He stepped into it with a sigh of genuine relief.
And Lennard, ever watchful, ever ready, replying to his brisk nod, was off like a shot toward Chelsea, scudding along the Embankment at a mile-a-minute clip. Out across the broad road, and into a network of meaner streets, where a goodly part of the army of the great unwashed dwelt and had their being, sped the car, and some fifteen or twenty minutes later came out into the open country, which was now at its height of summer beauty.
"This will be it, I think, sir," said he at last, slowing down at the curve where the main road threw out a narrow lane leading riverward between two tall, close-clipped privet hedges.
Mr. Narkom unlatched the door.
"Yes, this is as near as we dare go, and I'll wager I shall find him in the garden, so I might as well walk down direct. So drive about a little, Lennard, and be back here in about half an hour."
That Mr. Narkom knew his quarry well was evident, for, after passing a very wilderness of roses, he came to a spot where a dark head moved about among the bushes, and lo! there was Cleek, his sleeves turned up to the elbow, his face flushed with exercise, busy grubbing up weeds and loosening the baked earth around the roses, while Ailsa Lorne reclined in a low chair, watching the operations with lazy approval.
He glanced up at the sound of Mr. Narkom's footsteps on the gravelled path, and smiled ruefully.
"You're on time to the tick, you dear old nuisance," he said, slipping an earth-stained hand into his waistcoat pocket for his watch. "But you can pass the time of day with Miss Lorne while I go and divest myself of some of her landed estate."
He held up his fingers for Mr. Narkom to see, and went off whistling, while the Superintendent, with smiling countenance, did his friend's bidding.
"Glad to get back, weren't you, Miss Lorne?" he said, with an appreciative look round the rose-lined lawn and flower-filled pergolas that flanked it. "I do wish I did not need to bother him again so soon; but it's duty, you know, and in duty's call—"
"One has to obey blindly," she gave back in her soft voice. "And you know he will be only glad to help you. Ah, here he comes! I will beat a retreat, and leave you a clear field of action." And with a nod and a smile for the Superintendent, and something more than a nod and a smile for Cleek, as he came striding toward them, she turned upon her heel and entered the cottage; and they could hear her singing as she went.
But Fate is a strange creature. Much was to pass before she and the man she loved would know again the peace of that garden.
"Now," said Cleek as he and Mr. Narkom joined each other and commenced pacing the pathway, "what's wrong with the world this time? Robbery, suicide, or what?"
"Murder!" threw in Mr. Narkom with a little shudder. "And wholesale and diabolical murder at that. That's why I asked you to let my client come to you here, so as to get to work before another crime is committed. It was good of you to permit me that privilege, old chap."
"H'm! Is it as bad as that?" said Cleek, with a little frown. "Well, let us go to that little summer house there at the end of the path, and you shall tell me the particulars."
A minute's walk brought them to it, set like a bower in the centre of the roses.
"Well, now what, Mr. Narkom?" said Cleek. "Wholesale murder, I believe you said? Gad! that's a nice thing to throw at a law-abiding citizen on such a gorgeous day as this! Well, go ahead. But, first of all, who's the client? Lady or gentleman? You did not say over the 'phone this morning."
Mr. Narkom puckered up his brows.
"A gentleman," responded he. "A Hindoo gentleman, Mr. Gunga Ramagee, of Lincoln's Inn."
"Gunga Ramagee! Worst of those Indian Babu chaps, their names are so much alike. But, if my memory doesn't play me false, wasn't there one of that name who took a scholarship for law in Calcutta? Came of high Brahmin caste, and was accordingly disowned by his family when he came over to England?"
"The very man!" ejaculated the Superintendent, with a sigh of genuine admiration. "Though how you learn these things beats me. It's uncanny, I call it."
Cleek laughed good-naturedly.
"Not a bit, my dear chap. As it happens, there was a small paragraph about it in an old journal lying on the dentist's table last week, and as I had to patronize one of that fraternity, and loathe the inevitable hour's wait beforehand, that item impressed itself on my memory. But go on. Begin at the beginning, please. First of all, who has been killed and where?"
"At least three Hindoos," said the Superintendent with a sigh, "and probably a fourth. Each one is found nude, and a strange thing about the whole affair is that in each case nearly all the blood has been drained from the body."
Cleek sat up suddenly and sucked in his breath.
"What's that? What's that?" he rapped out, stung into a show of feeling by the revolting nature of this statement. "All the blood drained! Good heavens, man! this is something like a mystery. Where were they found?"
"In the neighbourhood of the Essex marshes, just near a little village called Easthope. The last one was discovered at midnight by the constable on duty, lying covered with a piece of sacking, a rope twisted round the body, and not a drop of blood spilt anywhere. They tell me that it seems as if he had been allowed to bleed to death, and then the corpse deposited in the road like a sucked orange."
"No clothing, eh?" Cleek dived for his cigarette case, a sure sign that his interest was aroused. "Pretty good evidence that the poor beggar's clothes would have betrayed his identity, and that he could not have been staying very far away from where he was found. Even in a country village a man can't carry a naked corpse very far without attracting attention, can he? H'm-m-m! Any vehicle seen or heard in the neighbourhood?"
Mr. Narkom shook his head.
"Not the ghost of one. But the first body was not found in the main road at all, but in a little lane leading over private fields. The constable is certain that no one passed him on his beat.
"But, according to Gunga Ramagee, a dog ran down the lane, running as if it had been frightened. As the constable knew where it belonged, he didn't take particular notice of it, and concluded it had been out on the prowl and was just making for Delhi House—"
"What's that? Delhi House?" threw in Cleek with an upward twitch of the eyebrows.
"Yes, it's the name of the house where Gulam Singh, the uncle of Gunga Ramagee, lives."
"Oho!" said Cleek, with a strong rising inflection. "Now we're getting 'warm,' as the children say. And all these gentlemen, you say, are Hindoos? And they're found outside a house wherein lives a Hindoo?"
Mr. Narkom sniffed.
"Yes, that's the popular belief," said he disdainfully. "But Gunga Ramagee declares that no one had visited his uncle save himself, and that he was an absolute recluse and hermit. Investigation proved that this was so, and that no one had any reason to expect the presence of the murdered men in the neighbourhood."
"Quite so. Any marks on the body? No signs of mutilation, I suppose?"
"No. The only wounded spots were where the arteries had been cut at the wrists and legs. Perfectly clean cuts, evidently made for the purpose of letting out the blood, and obviously not for killing. Beyond that the body bore no blemish. He had not been stabbed, shot, or bludgeoned, and Gunga Ramagee says that Seton, the village physician, made an examination, and proved, despite the fact that the body was practically bloodless, that there were no traces of poison or disease. The only signs of anything wrong at all were inflamed passages of the inside of the mouth and nostrils, and the doctor attributed this to cold, due to change of climate. Perhaps so much attention would not have been paid, but for the fact of finding, just three days after the burial, a second man in exactly the same condition. This corpse was half buried in a deep ditch about a hundred yards away. Examination showed that the body was in a far more advanced stage of decomposition, and that the man must have been murdered some weeks before the other."
"H'mm! I see," said Cleek. "Go on, please. I suppose there was an uproar in the village?"
The Superintendent threw up his hands.
"I should just think there was. The whole countryside is up in arms, and, like you, have connected Gulam Singh with the crimes. When a third body was found in the ditch they nearly burnt the house down, and Gunga Ramagee applied to the county, station to have a special posse of police to guard his uncle, whom he fairly worships. The man has been something more than a father to him, I should say.
"Well, yesterday, a fourth body was dug out, and, as I said before, Heaven alone knows how many more may have been discovered by this time!"
Cleek pursed up his lips, as though about to whistle, and gave bent to a low laugh.
"What a fool's trick!" said he. "What a fool's trick! The man must be a madman to court death at the hands of an infuriated mob, by burying the bodies just outside his own house. How has he done it without being seen? I suppose it is safe to assume that the fourth was discovered under similar circumstances?"
"Yes, all save the fact that the face was distorted into an expression of fearful agony, whereas those of the others were quite calm and peaceful; and the corpse was wrapped in a fragment of Indian tapestry. It was this, according to the entire village, that completed the evidence against Gulam Singh."
"The chain of events, but not necessarily 'evidence,' Mr. Narkom," threw in Cleek with a shake of the head. "Kali! Swa! Krishna! Let me think for a moment." His voice dropped off; he took his elbow in his palm, and his chin between his thumb and forefinger, and sat looking, with fixed eyes and puckered brow, out over the shining river, and for a time made neither sound nor movement.
And so he was still sitting when Miss Lorne came hurrying down the path, her white frock showing vividly against the green trees, and at her side a slim, frock-coated, top-hatted, brown-faced figure with the features of an Indian god, and a close-clipped, soot-black moustache covering his lips.
A slight frown crossed Cleek's face as he sprang up to greet them, and for the moment he hesitated. Then he put out his hand.
"Mr. Gunga Ramagee?" said he politely. The Hindoo bowed.
"This gentleman has an appointment with you," said Ailsa with a smile, and a sudden light leaped into the Hindoo's face as he turned to thank her. He bowed as she left them, with an obeisance that was fitting for a queen.
Cleek turned on his heel.
"Come," said he briskly; "we will be off at once. Drive down in the limousine, Mr. Narkom, and Mr. Gunga Ramagee shall tell me the facts as we go along. That's right, dear friend; lead the way and I shall follow."
A few brief moments of farewell to Ailsa, and then Cleek strode after the figures of Mr. Narkom and the Hindoo; and, before she had time to retrace her steps, Lennard was once more urging on his petrol steed, as though it were an avenging angel, and they were off, tearing down the road at a pace which ate up the miles greedily.
ONCE inside the limousine, however, the young Hindoo's impassive calm broke up, and, hardly waiting till the three were seated, he clutched painfully at Cleek's arm.
"Oh, Mr. Ledway," he cried, speaking without the trace of an accent in his voice (for it was by this name that Cleek had chosen to take on the case), "come to my poor uncle's rescue; save him from your brutal countrymen! Mr. Narkom tells me you are a veritable worker of miracles. Oh! I beseech you, in the name of Brahma the all-powerful, help me to get my uncle into safety, and once more into his own country, where his ways will not be misunderstood. If they kill him, those devils—"
His eyes shone with an almost insane light, and Cleek raised a soothing hand.
"Calm yourself, Mr. Ramagee," said he gently. "You can rely upon my doing my utmost, and no harm can come to your uncle while he is under police protection."
"Just what I told him myself," put in Mr. Narkom plaintively.
Cleek gave the man a penetrating look.
"Have you no suspicions yourself of any one who could possibly commit these outrages?"
For a brief second a look something akin to fear flickered over the sallow mobile face, then Mr. Ramagee stoutly denied any idea or knowledge.
"Dr. Seton says it is the act of a madness," he said in conclusion, moistening his dry lips.
"Dr. Seton? Who is he, pray?"
"The only doctor in Easthope, it would My uncle has always been so well, but, for the List few weeks he has had several bad attacks, and I threw up all my studies to stay with him. I wanted him to let me send for one of our native doctors, but he refused; he said that he would have Dr. Seton; and the doctor has been very attentive to him. Really, I would not have left him at all but for the fact that the doctor is staying in the house, and I have had dogs placed in the stables. Naturally, my uncle, who is a most devout man and keeps all our religious ceremonials most rigorously, would not allow the unclean beasts over the threshold of his doorway, but they are allowed to be let loose at night, to act as a guard over us."
"H'mm! I see; that accounts for it, then," said Cleek softly. "No, nothing, my dear sir. Go on. What is this doctor, English, Scotch, Irish, or—"
"Oh, an Englishman, I should say, but he has travelled all over the world, and is a most learned and educated man."
Cleek smiled at the evasiveness of the tone.
"Quite so," said he serenely. "Do you like him?"
The Hindoo twitched up his mouth and threw out his hands.
"Well, Mr. Led way, to be frank, I do not. Clever he undoubtedly is, but he is certainly one of the most brusque, plain-spoken men I ever have met; and if I did not know my uncle too well, I should think that he was afraid of him. Why, the other day he made my blood almost boil; I could have kicked him out neck and crop for the way he spoke to my uncle because he refused to let the doctor enter the shrine of Kali."
Cleek threw up his chin and lifted his eyebrows.
"Kali?" said he. "What's that?"
The Hindoo raised his eyes heavenward.
"My uncle," he replied, "as I have told you, is a most devout man, and one room in his house has been turned into a shrine for the divine goddess, Kali. He makes offerings to her, and her temple is well known to many devout believers who sojourn here in this land of tears."
"Oho! So at one time, then, many Hindoo visitors used to come to pay their respects to Kali?"
"Yes, but none have come during this year; it is not yet time. They will come for the Rising of the Waters Festival, when the Indus rises, you know."
Cleek nodded in understanding.
"Yes, yes, of course. On what day was it," he asked irrelevantly, "that your uncle refused to let Dr. Seton enter the shrine? Do you remember, or not?"
"As it happens, I can remember very well, for it was on the morning of the discovery of the first body, the cause of all the excitement; and my uncle spent the rest of the day praying to the goddess for help and protection."
"Ah! yes, yes," said Cleek; and for a time there was silence, only broken by the whirr of the motor as it rushed on at a forty-mile clip.
The summer day was drawing to a close when Lennard, following the directions of stray hay-makers and sundry village boys, drew up the limousine in front of a large house, the home of Gulam Singh. It was a substantial and somewhat ornate building, standing in the midst of green fields, with a high laurel hedge shutting it off from the lane. An iron gate gave ingress and egress to and from the grounds, and Cleek, as he ascended the steps in the wake of Mr. Narkom and the Babu, caught a glimpse of eager native faces peering down from an upper window. The smell of incense and heavy perfumes smote on his nostrils, and then he heard the sound of a shrill, imperative voice saying:
"Well, I am sorry I took the trouble of calling to-day, very sorry!"
Gunga Ramagee glanced up into his face.
"That is Dr. Seton," he muttered, and hurried into the stone entrance hall.
Here a curious scene met their eyes.
Before the great wide staircase with its crimson-carpeted steps, their brown faces showing grotesquely against the white of their garments, were two natives humbly salaaming before an angry figure, the figure of Dr. Seton, immaculate in his English garb and silk hat. He turned as Gunga Ramagee hurried toward him, and his dark face quivered with irritation.
"Good thing you have got back, Mr. Ramagee," said he, angrily waving a hand at the two figures. "What's come to these fools of servants? They say your uncle, Gulam Singh, has shut himself up in his room, and has not been seen since you left last night. He was all right then, wasn't he?"
A look of sudden fear, sudden surprise, swept across the Hindoo's face.
"By all the gods, yes!" he ejaculated. "He was quite well. I told these men—" he waved contemptuously to the natives, who fled incontinently, as if glad to escape the young man's wrath—"I bade them not disturb him, but I did not mean that no one was to see him. These," he added, turning back to Cleek and Mr. Narkom, who stood some distance from the two, "are two gentlemen from Scotland Yard, Mr. Ledway and Mr. Narkom."
A sudden light flashed into Dr. Seton's thin face as he acknowledged the introductions; but no more was said till they reached a wide, deep landing, and there, outside a second door, Gunga Ramagee stopped and knocked. There was no answer. A deadly silence seemed to pervade the house, and at last, with a little whining cry, the Hindoo threw himself against the door and beat at it with his fists. Cleek and Mr. Narkom and the doctor helped him, and finally the door gave way, and the little party fairly tumbled into the room.
That it had been locked on the inside was self-evident, for the key lay on the floor, where it had tumbled from the lock on their tempestuous entry. It was a long, large room; its walls were of a plain, blood-red, bordered by a frieze depicting scenes from the festivals and the sacred scrolls. At one end there was a large bow window, fastened and sealed. At the other an altar, banked high with flowers and jewelled offerings, and above it sat a colossal figure of Kali, smiling inscrutably down in all its painted hideousness. But a brief glance was given to this, for their attention was instantly arrested by the sight of a figure in native robes of great richness lying face downward on the Persian rug in front of the altar.
Gunga Ramagee gave a low wail as he bent over it, and Cleek did not need to be told that this was Gulam Singh, and that the Hindoo had passed beyond the ken of human knowledge. That his death had been a violent one was also probable, for his death agony was registered in the hands which tightly clutched the folds of the rug. But there were no signs of a struggle, no aperture through which death by an outside source could have come. To Mr. Narkom, however, the cause seemed quite plain, for on the altar, in the midst of the white lilies, stood a sapphire cup, filled to the brim with a red, viscous fluid.
"Blood, by James!" he cried, drawing it to Cleek's notice, and waving an excited hand toward it. "It's as plain as a pikestaff. He knew the game was up, and he killed himself. What do you say?" He turned inquiringly to his great ally, over whom had come an imperceptible change. The curious one-sided smile looped up one side of his face, then he turned dull eyes from one strained person to the other.
"Looks as if our man's escaped us, after all. Not got far to seek for the solution, eh, what? Suicide, I should say. Let's have a look at him." The Superintendent lurched over toward the dead man, and went down on his knees beside Dr. Seton, who bent over the body, his face alight with something more than professional sympathy; and Mr. Narkom found himself watching mechanically the long, lithe fingers as they felt and tapped for any trace of the divine spark. Cleek, too, watched them, smiled, frowned, and shrugged his shoulders; but as he advanced young Ramagee waved him imperiously away.
"You shall not touch him, you pigs of men! You think him guilty of blood murder! But it's a lie, I tell you! It's a lie!" he screamed, laying his hands upon Cleek and pushing him away with all his might. "My uncle never harmed a fly. He is a Brahmin, and death is forbidden them. Go! Leave me with my dead."
But Cleek shook his head.
"All in good time, Mr. Ramagee," said he stolidly. "You see, you've invoked the English law, and it's our business to look into things. Men can't get murdered in a locked room just as they like; and it seems as if you were the last person to see him alive."
"Sir!" He fairly hissed the word in his agitation and anger, but his face was a sickly drab beneath the olive skin, and he shrank back trembling as Cleek advanced closer.
Dr. Seton straightened himself.
"There is no need, Mr. Medway—"
"Ledway," corrected Cleek serenely.
"Well, whatever your name is, I can certify that my patient died of the disease for which I have been attending him, namely, that of the heart. I shall certainly give that as my verdict."
"H'mm!" said Cleek, bending still closer over the silent figure. "I see!" He looked up quickly. "Well, doctor, if that's so, it's the first time I ever knew heart disease to leave a wound."
"What do you mean?" Dr. Seton straightened himself, and his eyes almost flashed fire as Cleek picked up the wrist of the dead man and pointed to a tiny red puncture.
"Some poison has evidently been injected; that remains to be seen at the inquest."
"The inquest!"
Another frantic burst of grief came from the lips of the dead man's nephew, for by this procedure his uncle's body would be irrevocably denied.
Consternation reigned supreme. Then Cleek stepped back with a little shrug.
The passage beyond was filled with a group of wailing, excited natives, for the news had spread from one to the other that their master was dead. By this time the evening darkness was beginning to descend, and Cleek slipped quietly out of the room into their midst, then plunged down the corridors.
The very atmosphere of the house reeked with mystery and intrigue, and a soft rustling behind some heavy curtains warned Cleek that he must be near the women's quarters. But he was hardly prepared for what ensued. For, with a whisper of silken draperies, the curtain slipped back, and from behind it stepped a white-robed figure. A hand touched his arm, and a woman, her face concealed by the black yashmak she wore, appealed to him excitedly, speaking, to his colossal surprise, in perfect English.
"You are of the law, they say. Oh, praise be to the gods!" she sighed in a monotonous undertone. "Naree, my maid-servant, has brought me the news that my uncle, Gulam Singh, is dead—murdered! And by some wicked hand! Ah, sahib, you will listen to me, help me to avenge him! I am Azzisan, his niece. You are surprised that I speak your tongue? But my uncle had me taught, as a little child. I have helped him in his writings, and now to think—Ai-ai!" Her voice broke into the soft eastern wail, but she restrained herself quickly. "Ah, but I must not give way, for if I am discovered speaking to you he will kill me, too!"
Cleek switched round and looked at her sharply.
"'He?' Who is 'he?'" he said.
"Why, who but Gunga Ramagee? He wants the fortune and the jewels of Gulam Singh. Oh, I knew what would happen when he came, with his soft tongue and loving ways; when he made the writings in his favour and persuaded my uncle to sign it—"
"Oho!" said Cleek in two different tones. "A will, eh? Leaving him everything?"
"Ai-ai, that is what you call it, a will. And he has succeeded. Ah, sahib! in the name of the high gods, take him away. He kills and kills, that smooth-tongued cousin of mine; oh, yes, even though I give him to a shameful death. I believe him to have killed those dead men out there." She waved a brown delicate hand, heavily studded with gems, toward the open, and her voice grew to a whispering thread. "We hear things in the zenana, and I fear, I fear for myself. Death is in the air, death is everywhere!"
"But not for you, O Azzisan," gave back Cleek grimly, with a sudden snapping of the jaws. "I% will prevent any further harm."
A murmur of gratitude came from behind the concealing veil; then Cleek felt soft lips pressed to his hand, and in an instant he was alone.
"Pretty little thing," he said to himself, retracing his footsteps. But even as he did so a strange thing happened. For across the quiet air came the sound of music, soft, wailing, plaintive strains as from a reed pipe.
His body grew tense, taut, as a hound on the track of a fox; the nerve in his temple throbbed incessantly. Then, with a little, silent laugh, he hit the clenched fist of his right hand into the open palm of his left, and crept over toward the banisters, leaning over.
Gunga Ramagee, at the head of a band of native servants, crouched outside the fatal shrine of Kali, Goddess of Blood.
Cleek jerked up his head, and the curious one-sided smile travelled up his cheek.
"An Indian reed pipe—and the solution, for a ducat!" he said softly; then he went down and out into the courtyard, where Mr. Narkom awaited him.
"It's no good staying here, dear chap, is it?" queried the Superintendent, giving an uneasy look over his shoulder. "This place gives one the creeps. And the mischief's evidently been done."
Cleek nodded.
"Yes," said he grimly, his mouth set in a straight line; "the ripe fruit has been plucked, Mr. Narkom, but it remains yet to be seen whether the unseen plucker shall eat of it or not."
"Gad, man, have you any ideas already?"
Mr. Narkom fairly leaped at him in his excitement, but Cleek merely smiled as he led the way through the glass entrance doors to the gravelled pathway outside.
"Bushels," said he finally, giving Mr. Narkom's plump elbow a squeeze. "First, I want to see the bloodless men for myself. Secondly, I could do with a trip to the British Museum, for when dog eats dog, then comes the tug of war."
With this enigmatical statement Mr. Narkom was fain to be content, and in an almost unbroken silence the two "gentlemen from Scotland Yard" were driven to the village police station, there to see the bodies of the four dead men, and to seek the solution to the puzzle.
THE sight was not a pleasant one, and for a few moments Cleek stood pinching up his chin in deep thought. "Poisoned, without a doubt," he muttered, as he verified the Superintendent's statements. "But with what? If it were that! I wonder! It would leave no trace, but their faces would be distorted. Yes, but one was!"
"One was what?" said Mr. Narkom, in a sort of dazed bewilderment. "My dear old chap, what are you driving at?"
Cleek looked at him patiently. "My friend," he said in a slow, level voice of one teaching a little child, "people don't let themselves be murdered knowingly without a struggle for life, and if they are poisoned don't smile peacefully like that. Look at that man's face. And now, the other, the one that has been buried, you say was distorted?"
"I should just think it was!" said the Superintendent. "Anyhow, according to Ramagee—"
"Ah, yes," said Cleek, drumming idly on the window ledge near which they stood. Then he stooped a little nearer, and examined the face of the dead man found in the lane, whereupon he gave vent to a little, yapping laugh. "The idiot! The blithering idiot I am! Of course! Arsenic! And I never guessed!"
"But, my dear chap, no trace of arsenic has been found," said Mr. Narkom with a plaintive sigh.
Cleek laughed.
"Those who hide can find, Mr. Narkom, and those who find can hide. There's a little puzzle for you. Give me the limousine, and I'll be back by the morning. And if I don't prevent any more good blood from being spilled, shut me up in a lunatic asylum for a full-fledged idiot! Engage a room at the inn for me, and expect me up at Delhi House to-morrow morning at nine. There'll be a pleasant breakfast for some one, or I'm very much mistaken."
He turned on his heel and plunged out of the police station, making his way to the yard of the inn, the Easthope Arms, where Lennard had stationed the car.
"Got enough petrol to take us back to town?" he queried as Lennard came out of the inn, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking beautifully satisfied with life in general.
"Yes, sir; just about, and a pint or two over," gave back Lennard serenely.
"Good! Then get me to the British Museum as fast as you can streak it. I've a notion that we'll get to the bottom of this puzzle sooner than I expected. Put on full speed, my lad. I'm due here to-morrow at nine o'clock, and if the whole thing isn't mapped out as plain as your grandmother's patchwork, then my reputation is gone forever!"
Lennard laughed, turned the car round, and then shot out along the silent village street.
It was just striking ten, and as they passed the chandler's little shop, which was also dignified by the name of "Post Office," Cleek, bending forward for a better view, was just in time to see the slim figure of Dr. Seton emerge from the building, a well-satisfied smile on his face. Cleek smiled, too, though, perhaps, had he known what the future held, he would have kept that smile for a later date.
AT nine to the tick on the following morning, Cleek had said, and at nine to the tick he was back at Delhi House, the blue limousine whirring him up to the door in company with Mr. Narkom and Dr. Seton, whom he found walking up the drive together.
"I think you will find our friend Mr. Ramagee slightly more reconciled to his change of fortune," sneered the doctor as they entered the hall.
"It's to be hoped so," said Cleek through his clenched teeth. "Not that it matters, for his game is up now. I rather fancy I shall need your help, doctor, so if you would not mind going up and seeing that he is dressed, I should be greatly obliged."
"Verree pleased to assist you, Mr. Ledway," said the doctor, and, turning on his heel, swiftly ascended the staircase, followed by Mr. Narkom. But Cleek lingered to speak to the two plain-clothes detectives who stood in the dim shadow of the landing, maintaining an unbroken silence. They saluted him respectfully.
"No one has been allowed to leave the house, I suppose?" Cleek queried as he acknowledged their salutes.
"No, sir. Mr. Narkom's orders was as no one was to leave till you came, and we was to do whatever you said, sir."
"Good lads! Handcuffs with you?"
"Yes sir."
"Splendid! Then follow me up the corridor, softly, after I'm in the second room. Keep a sharp look-out, and you'll presently have the pleasure of arresting one of the wickedest cold-blooded murderers that ever walked on this earth."
He passed up the corridor, but before he could enter the shrine of Kali, into which had disappeared the doctor and Superintendent, there came again the subdued rustle of silken draperies, and once more an anxious voice appealed to him.
"Ledway sahib," it said in that low, moaning monotone he recognized, "what of the truth? What of the truth?"
Cleek lowered his own voice.
"Come, then, O Azzisan," said he softly. "The truth is revealed. Come with me and witness the justice of the gods."
He opened the door, and the veiled girl slid gently through, following him, silent-footed, along the corridor.
The shrine was empty, that is, so far as Gulam Singh was concerned, for his body had been removed. Only Mr. Narkom and Dr. Seton stood in the room, the Superintendent labouring evidently under repressed excitement. There was no need to ask for the Babu, for the door opened almost immediately and the young Hindoo entered, his face once more calm and composed, though obviously as one who had suffered a great loss.
He started at the sight of Azzisan, then bowed deeply to her, as if recognizing her right to be present at such a time.
"Dr. Seton tells me you have come to clear my uncle's name," he said, his voice quivering with emotion. "Oh, if that is so, Mr. Ledway, prove it to the world, I beseech you! It will mean so much to him—so much!"
"All in good time," said Cleek serenely, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his cuff. "But first of all, let's come down to brass tacks, as our American cousins would say. My name's Cleek, Mr. Ramagee, Cleek of Scotland Yard. Maybe you haven't heard the name though possibly others of your countrymen may have reason to remember it, especially the Ranee of Thang. That little affair of the Ladder of Light, you know."
"Cleek!" gasped out Ramagee, falling back a step and surveying him with astonishment.
"Cleek!" fairly shouted Dr. Seton, with an involuntary exclamation of amazement. He nodded in the direction of a native who stood shrouded by the curtained doorway, and who instantly disappeared.
"Yes," responded that gentleman placidly. "Cleek. I thought you would remember it. I think you tried to get Her Highness to part with the necklace, didn't you, Mr. Ramagee? But your offer was refused."
The young Hindoo mopped his face with his handkerchief. It was strangely pale.
"Are you a wizard?" cried he in a state of blank amazement.
Cleek smiled.
"No, my friend, only an ordinary 'policeman,' who will see that the law of his country cannot be defied with impunity, eh, doctor? I said I should want your help. Come over here; help me to catch the murderer of Gulam Singh, the murderer of the Hindoos who came laden with gems to place before the shrine of Kali, the betrayer of an old man's trust—" He switched round suddenly as the doctor came to his call, and faced Gunga Ramagee whose figure suddenly stiffened.
The doctor came, came with a smiling countenance to do his bidding; then, before you could say "Jack Robinson," the thing was done. With a spring like that of a cat on a hapless mouse, Cleek had lurched sideways, throwing the surprised doctor to the ground, at the same time emitting a sharp whistle from his pursed-up lips. The door flashed open and flashed shut again, and two blue-coated men flung them-' selves on the writhing, struggling figure.
"Well played, lads! Well played! Careful, now! He's as lithe as an eel—the charming Eurasian devil!" cried Cleek, standing back and surveying the scene with professional enjoyment. "A good capture! A splendid capture! Thought you'd take us all in with your little English ways, eh, doctor? But I was one too many for you this time. Pity you didn't learn to speak the native tongue with rather more accuracy and not quite so much accent on those last syllables. 'Verree sorree,' eh?" He laughed suddenly, and threw back his head. "It takes three generations to get that trick of speech out of the Eurasian tongue, and you, I should imagine, were a pretty poor second. God! but what a beast, what a loathsome devil, gentlemen! Not content with torturing his fellow-countrymen and robbing them of their life-blood for his devilish experiments, as well as of their earthly possessions, he must kill Gulam Singh, too." He turned to the young Hindoo and put out his hand. "Would to God I had been in time to save him," he said gravely. "But it was not to be. Forgive my seeming to accuse you, Mr. Ramagee; you see, evidence could have been piled up against you, and even this lady, Azzisan, acknowledges her mistake."
At this the veiled girl stretched out a trembling hand, and Gunga Ramagee took it in his own and pressed it tenderly.
Cleek turned upon his heel.
"But I guessed that it was hardly likely that either you or your uncle would commit these atrocities and leave the bodies so openly exposed," he went on, with a little frown of disgust at the whole awful affair. "It was too obvious. And when I noted that your uncle's doctor was a Eurasian, I had my doubts. What's that? How did I find out? Why, look at the man's finger-nails! That should be proof enough, in all conscience. That little purplish-blue moon above the cuticle would damn the whitest skin. And the accent, too! Besides, why should an innocent man call a snake bite heart disease? That wound on your uncle's wrist could only be caused by one thing, the black death adder, the snake which he whistled away with a reed pipe the moment you had left the room yesterday after the discovery. I found, too, that the faces of the dead men had been treated with arsenic so as to give them a peaceful expression. An experiment, I presumed, as there was no reason for it, and one of the men had been poisoned with the Malay 'devil's dust,' as it is called. That would leave no sign at all. It was only the inflamed passages of the noses and throats that gave me the clue. Possibly the stuff had been administered as snuff, and the unknowing victims had sniffed it up, unwitting of what terror was in store for them.
"But how did I discover it all, you ask? Oh, just by the possession of an exceedingly good memory. I recollected that a book on pathology, dealing with the blood, had been written by a native doctor, Mani Setarun. I've been promising myself the pleasure of looking into it, and I wondered if it might not be this man's father. I was right. In the British Museum was the record of his change of name to the English one of Seton, and the acknowledgment of his authorship of that book. That's all."
The little group had remained silent during Cleek's speech, but now, with one accord, they voiced the question that was in their thoughts.
Cleek smiled.
"One at a time, ladies and gentlemen, if you please, as the parrot of well-known fame remarked. How did he get the naked body up the lane when no one saw him? Well, the dog, one of those attached to the stables, had probably followed the good doctor home, and when the body was tied to him by the rope, set off down the lane, freeing himself at last just before he got to Delhi House. To make sure, I stopped this morning at the doctor's house, and, in the name of the law, searched it, finding sufficient evidence to prove this a fact."
"But the blood?" said Mr. Narkom, pointing to the sapphire cup. "That is—"
"Not human, Mr. Narkom, thank God! I dipped my handkerchief in it and had it analyzed last night at the Yard. It is probably from one of those fine breed of pigeons which are circling outside the window. See—" He stooped suddenly and picked up something which he held aloft. "Here is a gray feather. The emblem of the sacrifice. The riddle is solved, gentlemen, and I can wish you a very good morning. Boys, remove your prisoner. Mr. Narkom, whenever you are ready—"
But before the Superintendent could make so much as a single sound another voice struck in upon him, and the erstwhile "doctor" pushed forward between his manacled hands, and spat at Cleek.
"Devil of a wizard!" he cried, his voice quivering with mingled hate and despair. "I was a fool to remain an instant after I recognized you, that time you looked up into my face. It was a slip, eh? Oh, yes, a slip, we know, but I, too, have a memory for faces. Where did I see you, eh? In Paris, mon ami, where I got my degree. In Paris, where Margot loved and hated you. Ai-ai! but I have my revenge, for I have wired to her that you were here, and bade her hunt out your pale-faced lily in the country cottage and steal her away from you. Kill me now, if you like."
A cry like that of a wounded animal at bay broke from Cleek's lips.
Gunga Ramagee sprang forward.
"Dog of a half-caste!" he spat out furiously, shaking the doctor's slim figure in his strong hands. "By the beard of my father, but you shall tell me where she is!"
"Dog of a half-caste!... By the beard of my
father, but you shall tell me where she is!"
The doctor laughed, and in a very madness of despair the young Hindoo struck blindly at the sneering mouth.
There was a moment of awful silence. Then came the sound of a commotion without, the shouting of a hoarse, raucous voice, and instantly there was pandemonium. The door burst open, and a dishevelled, dirty figure burst into the room.
Cleek took a quick step forward.
"Dollops!" he cried in a sharp, hurt voice.
The boy bounded toward him, his heart in his eyes.
"Mr. Cleek, sir, guv'nor!" he bleated despairingly, clutching Cleek's hand. "Lumme, sir, but it's Miss Lorne; she's bin sneaked off by some dirty Hindoos and Frenchmen. But I knows where she is! I knows where she is! I follered on behind, nipped round and slung on to the back of their bloomin' motor, and druv strite to the place wiv 'em. At Wanstead it is, out beyond Croydon. I puts a couple of bobbies ter guard the 'ouse till we gets back. She's as safe as—as a ship on shore," he finished abruptly.
"Good!" Cleek turned to Mr. Narkom and plucked his sleeve. "You will come, dear friend?"
"To the death, Cleek."
"Right. Good-bye, gentlemen, and good luck. It is now my turn for a mystery, but, please God, we'll solve it soon."
As he passed, Gunga Ramagee caught his sleeve and let his eyes dwell thankfully upon Cleek's face.
"Mr. Cleek," he said simply, "let me help. Let me make some reparation. Azzisan says these devils may hurt Miss Lorne if you attempt force. Let me accompany you. We will get into the house by stealth, and smuggle her out in disguise—a veil and yashmak will do it. Then, once she is safe, let the police raid the house if they will."
Cleek's hand shot out and gripped the Hindoo's. His voice was husky.
"Thanks," he said brokenly.
It was an hour later before Cleek and the Hindoo, both clad now in native robes, arrived at the house pointed out by Dollops.
A native servant opened the door and the Hindoo swept imperiously by him.
"I come from Setarun," he said softly, speaking in the liquid tones of his race. "The white prisoner is to be handed over to this man, his servant. Disguise her in the clothes he bears, and let her be dragged off quickly. The police are on your track."
The man turned and led them upstairs.
From below came the sound of laughter and voices; but above all was silent.
Finally the man returned, leading by the hand a slim willowy figure, clad in the Indian garments of a lady of leisure. Cleek's heart leaped at sight of her, but he dared make no sign.
"You are to be delivered into other hands," said the Hindoo abruptly, not daring to show any friendliness, lest the man should suspect and give a sign.
Ailsa shrank back against the wall.
"My God!" she sobbed in a low, terrified whisper. "What are they going to do to me? What? What? Where is he? Why does he not come? He can save 'me if any one can!"
She sent her haunted eyes up into Cleek's face, and then something she saw there, under the painted tan and the queer garments he wore, brought a sudden fight into her eyes. She turned to the manservant.
"I am ready," she said softly, but all heaven was in her voice, and her eyes shone with a strange, new light.
Then, soundlessly, like whispering shadows, they stole downstairs to the waiting car and to the liberty that lay without.
IT took Ailsa several days to get over the shock of her sojourn in Margot's house, and Cleek, who began fully to realize the extent of the hatred levelled not only against him but against what was dearer to him than his own life, the perfect woman whom he loved, was himself almost in despair. However, for a time, a truant peace reigned, the lull which usually comes before the breaking of the storm-clouds, and for a few short weeks it seemed as if Count Irma and Margot had exhausted their malice.
Ailsa, together with her dear friend Mrs. Hawkesley, was settled in the tiny riverside cottage, while Cleek and Dollops, in a houseboat anchored to the landing stage at the bottom of the garden, found the time pass very pleasantly indeed. But all holidays must come to an end, and when Captain Hawkesley arrived from town for the week-end, it was to break the news that his business at the War Office being now completed, he had been obliged to book their passage to return to India. Young Lord Chepstow, now a lusty schoolboy, would be left at Harrow. It was only the thought that both Ailsa and Cleek himself would watch over his progress that reconciled the boy's mother to putting the seas between them.
A day or so later found them back in town and, having completed their arrangements, a last visit was paid to Harrow.
Although they devoted themselves one and all to forgetting the danger which hung over them, it was little Lord Chepstow himself who aroused fresh anxiety, by an unconscious revelation of their opponents' strategy.
"We've got a new boy coming to us next term," he said, after demolishing his fourth Neapolitan ice with as much gusto as Dollops himself. "His uncle came down yesterday; he's a foreigner, comes from some potty little State or other, and wants his nephew to be introduced to society. A bit of a snob, eh, what?" he chuckled roguishly. "The Head brought him into our room, and the uncle asked all sorts of questions, and—wasn't it funny, Mother? I heard him say: 'Put him in with Milord Chepstow, and I pay you double, eh?' That rubbed the Head up, of course; still I believe I shall have to put up with the young beggar, because the uncle being a count and—I say, Miss Lorne, what's up? Have I said anything?" He looked across at her, his eyes wide with amazement, for Ailsa had turned suddenly white and shrank back in her chair like a whipped thing.
"Count!" she murmured hastily. "Count! What was his name, dear, or don't you know?"
"'Fraid I didn't catch it. But he was a tall chap who looked as though he were in the army. Fierce moustache and all that. Regular foreigner. But his name slipped me," gave back the boy briskly.
So there was no eluding him after all. Cleek's eyes met Ailsa's across the little tea table. His lips shut. Irma must know only too well that with Mrs. Hawkesley on the high seas, Ailsa herself, as well as Cleek, would be much in the company of his schoolboy whom already they had rescued from a dual danger when, as a baby boy, he was the sacred son of Brahma, and as such was sought and nearly killed by the king of Apaches, Gaston Merode himself. Yes, Count Irma had indeed banked on their love and loyalty only too well, and Ailsa was no whit surprised when Cleek, pulling out his watch, said casually:
"Well, youngster, I'm going to leave you to see your mother and father off, while Miss Lorne and I take a trip down to town." And with a queer little smile looping up one corner of his mouth, Cleek turned on his heel and forged down to the nearest garage, there to hire a taxi that should take them back to town and the added protection of Scotland Yard.
He found Mr. Narkom in a state bordering upon insanity, for that worthy gentleman, not content with caring for the safety of his famous ally and the woman he loved, had now involved himself in the unravelling of a series of mysterious occurrences which threatened to outwit him by their very cunning.
And indeed, on the following day, in spite of the fact that his thermometer was registering eighty degrees in the shade, and that his forehead was literally streaming with perspiration, the Superintendent paced the floor of his private office in Scotland Yard in a state of keen excitement. As Big Ben's last, sonorous note of twelve came over the intervening distance, he whipped round at the opening of the door behind him, and nodded curtly to Detective-sergeant Hammond, who stood in the frame of the open doorway.
"Well!" rapped out the Superintendent in a fury of impatience. "It was only a petty gas explosion, wasn't it? Speak up, man! It's not another bomb mystery?"
Detective-sergeant Hammond shook his head.
"I'm afraid it is, sir," said he gravely. "That's the fourth time this month there's been an explosion at that house in Harebourn Square, and this time is worst of all, for the house has been empty since the last explosion, when those French people rented it and soon afterward moved away. There's not a stick or shred of furniture in the place, no gas or light laid on. What the Count wanted to go there for at all beats me."
"So it does me," fumed the Superintendent, mopping his bald patch desperately. "There's only one explanation, of course. But there, what's the use of talking! He was killed directly he entered the front room, you say?"
"Yes, sir. He had reached the middle of the room, when there came a flash, and he was killed at once, as if a bomb had struck him on the head. Nothing passed through the air, shot or bomb, that we can both swear to. I can't believe there was any bomb hidden in that room, because the officer on point duty went over it only the preceding day. The agent happened to be passing, and they got talking about the house; the agent, Metting and Veil's young man, whipped out his key, and they went into the very room, sir. The sergeant says it's all covered with linoleum, the people never took it up. That's all I can make of it, sir. Shall I tell Lennard to bring round the limousine, sir?"
"Confound the limousine!" cried Mr. Narkom, excitedly hitting his hands together. "It's Mr. Cleek I want, Hammond; and what the deuce has become of him Heaven alone knows! I've rung and rung that blessed telephone till I shouldn't wonder if the exchange refused to give another reply. And now I've sent Lennard round after him. Ah!" as the sound of footsteps rang in the stone corridor, "that is Lennard now. Found him, my lad?"
Leonard's hand went up to his forehead in grave salute, but his face wore a worried, anxious look.
"No, sir," said he. "No, Mr. Narkom. I drove down to Clarges Street with Inspector Petrie, made up as yourself, to see why no one was answering your 'phone; but all I could learn from the charwoman was that the gentleman and young Dollops went off to Hampstead Heath this morning, and they haven't got back yet."
"Hampstead Heath be jiggered!" said Mr. Narkom with an irritability born of long suspense. "I know that means he has gone out for the day. Think of it! Playing round Hampstead Heath, with the law waiting, and a case like this in hand! Cinnamon! but it's enough to send a man crazy to think of it!"
"Yes, sir," agreed Lennard sympathetically. "But he can't intend to spend the night there, sir. Not, at least, unless he has gone clean daft."
"Which he has, the astounding beggar, over every blessed leaf and bud and flower in the neighbourhood!" snapped the Superintendent in a half-angry tone. "But every minute is precious; besides, there's the personal danger of the thing. To think of him going off in a lonely spot like that! Just to think of it, with those Maurevanian johnnies on the look-out for him, to say nothing of the Apaches, who owe him a pretty grudge now. Meanwhile, I am here, prevented from going home till goodness knows what hour to-night; and I promised Mrs. Narkom to take her to a theatre, too! Two stalls wasted, to say nothing of a good dinner! And the only man capable of handling this diabolical case, capable of getting to the bottom—"
He stopped short, and sucked in his breath as the sharp, insistent ring of the telephone bell caused him to fairly jump and fling himself across the room.
And the softly whistled strains of the opening bars of "God Save the King" sent him into a very transport of delight.
"That you, old chap!" he half laughed, half cried, as he recognized the sound. "Thank Heaven you have got back at last! I've had a nice old fright, I can tell you. What's that? You're going out shopping now with Miss Lorne? Oh, but, dear old chap, do put it off. I'm sure Miss Lorne will forgive you. We're in a dreadful hole. What? Yes, fearful. What's that? You'll meet me? Oh, good man! Good man! You'll have a laurel wreath for this, I swear! Good-bye."
Still in a state of excitement that went ill with the heat of the day, the Superintendent plunged across the room, dragged on his coat, seized his hat, and went down and out into the street, where Lennard and the limousine awaited him.
"Mr. Cleek's meeting us at Oxford Circus, corner of Portland Street, Lennard. Right-hand side. Just a minute."
He scribbled a hasty message to leave for Petrie when that worthy should return, jumped into the throbbing car, banged the door after him, and off they went dashing up Parliament Street, along Cockspur Street, pell-mell to the Haymarket and the meeting-place, at a speed that set the constables on point duty winking in astonishment. It still lacked five minutes of being a quarter after twelve when the limousine whizzed up to Portland Street; and there was Cleek, immaculately attired, standing in deep conversation with Ailsa, who was leaning out of a taxi and talking to him with affectionate earnestness.
Mr. Narkom leaned forward and unlatched the door of the limousine; Cleek, seeing, raised his hat and, with a word to the taxi driver, stepped back, mingling with the crowd of sightseers and shoppers. Another minute, and he had come abreast of the limousine.
"All right, Lennard. Give her her head, lad, and make for wherever you're bound," he said cheerfully, as he flashed in and closed the door. Even as he dropped into his seat the car wheeled round and with a final scrunch rocketed away into the shining roadway.
"Well, here I am, you old fidget. Sorry I wasn't 'on tap' the minute you rang. Didn't get back to my diggings until ten minutes ago. Dollops and I had an adventure, and that delayed us."
"Oh, yes, I know. Lennard told me. Been traipsing round Hampstead Heath, and a day like this, too! Enough to suffocate a black."
"Had to, old man. I went house hunting for a friend, a friend of Miss Lorne's, by the way, and I was to have taken her to lunch this afternoon but for you, you old spoil sport. I had an adventure, too, as I told you. I came across a poor devil of a fellow' on the Heath. He'd evidently been knocked down and injured about the head; but all he could do was to writhe and twist about, his brain too badly injured to give any account of himself, or what had happened. And so, naturally, we had to stop."
"Oh, yes, you would! Just the sort of silly, sentimental thing you would do!" interposed the Superintendent, for once in his life rendered irritable with his soul's idol, which was hardly to be wondered at, for the day had been one of strange happenings. The integrity and the efficacy of his beloved Yard were at stake, and the Superintendent was almost beside himself.
"You might have been blown up with a bomb or knifed, but that didn't matter, I suppose, as long as you could fuss over some one else. Besides, I've got trouble enough at Hampstead as it is."
"Hallo! Hallo!" laughed Cleek, turning amused eyes on the heated face of his friend. "What's rubbed your feathers the wrong way, my friend? As Dollops would say, 'You've got the fair old 'ump,' I can see. Just because I wasn't on hand directly you rang for me, like a well-behaved parlour maid, and spent an hour looking after a poor devil of an injured chap."
The Superintendent fairly snorted in his rage and relief.
"Oh, hang the man!" he flung out, half laughingly. "I don't care a jot about him. But don't mind me to-day. I'm nearly crazy with anxiety. And to think I needed you so but couldn't get at you because of some petty tramp or other! Don't talk about it; I can't think of anything but this infernal mystery. To think that a man can be murdered in a perfectly empty house, an absolutely empty room, right under the telescopes of two of our own men told off to watch him, and who have no more idea than Queen Anne how it was done; and, in addition to that, complete plans of fortifications destroyed worth a fortune."
Cleek sat up suddenly and threw out his chin.
"Hallo! that sounds interesting," said he with a flicker of the eyebrows. "An empty house, eh? Whereabouts, pray?"
"In Harebourn Square, Hampstead, strangely enough. Why, what on earth—"
For Cleek drew himself up suddenly, his brows puckered, and his face very grave.
"A queer coincidence," he muttered. "But let's have the details of the case. When and where and how did the affair begin?"
"Yesterday, at least as far as I personally am concerned," replied the Superintendent. "It was somewhere about ten o'clock yesterday morning, when I had a special message from the War Office that they were sending some one to whom I was to pay special attention—no less a personage than the Alterian Ambassador, Count Estamar, I daresay you have heard of him, Cleek?"
"I have, as it happens," admitted that gentleman with a faint smile. "I believe, in his younger days, he was attached to the Maurevanian consulate, and represented the Ambassador at several State functions. He came over here for the Coronation; then, later, he was made Ambassador here. Surely he has not been getting into any trouble over secret papers. He is too honourable a man for any proceedings of that sort, although I believe he is not half so wealthy as he ought to be."
The Superintendent shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, he wasn't soliciting the Yard's aid on his own account, old chap, but for his son, Count Egon Estamar, a young man of about twenty-five. That's where the trouble lies, and—"
But Cleek struck in upon him suddenly.
"Don't tell me anything has happened to that bonny boy," he interposed with a little, anxious sigh. "I remember him well by name. Supposed to be the handsomest, bravest chap that ever donned the Emperor's uniform or spoke the Alterian tongue. Engaged to be married, too, to Adela von Altburg, his cousin, and countess in her own right. It's not that boy that has been hurt?"
"But it is," said the Superintendent sadly. "He was killed little more than an hour ago; that's the amazing part of it!"
"Killed!" Cleek hunched up his shoulders and gave vent to a little clicking sound; then: "Go on, pray. What did Count Estamar want with you?" he said in a quiet voice.
"He wanted police protection for his son as far as Dover on his way to Paris."
"Police protection?" rapped out Cleek, with an inquiring rise of his eyebrows. "In Heaven's name, what for? He wasn't in any danger, was he? Or was he carrying special papers?"
"That's just it, Cleek; he was carrying the original text of several secret treaties and fortifications. The Alterian Government had been having them drawn up here in the consulate, and Count Estamar, the father, had a lively dread lest the nature of the contents should have leaked out, and an attack be made upon the young man."
"One moment, please. Did any one know that these treaties were being copied? Any of the clerks or attaches aware that he was going to make that journey?"
"Only one, his secretary, Fritz Tarleschen, a young man absolutely devoted to the family, and equally incapable of betraying his master, even if he were ungrateful enough."
"Why ungrateful?" asked Cleek quickly.
"Because he owes his life to young Count Egon. He had fallen overboard from a pleasure yacht, and Count Egon jumped in after him and rescued him. But the immersion had injured his throat, and he was rendered incapable of speech. He acted, however, as a sort of combination secretary and companion to Count Egon."
"A bonny boy, indeed!" said Cleek with an approving nod of the head. "It isn't every man who risks his own life for a total stranger like that. Well, go on. It doesn't seem as if anything could leak out if he were unimpeachable."
"Oh, yes; they are sure of him. It was Fritz Tarleschen who copied the treaties and prepared the plans, and got them ready for his young master to take to Dover this morning by the 11.40 from Victoria. And so—I say, what the dickens are you muttering about? I don't believe you're listening."
Cleek gave a dry little smile and jerked up his head.
"Oh, yes, I am, Mr. Narkom," said he serenely. "But that name—Tarleschen—h'm! Tarleschen; it sounds familiar. Where the deuce have I heard it before?"
"Why, the 'Tarleschen Salts,' perhaps. It's been advertised pretty freely. Nothing to do with our man, but it makes the name sound familiar."
"Very likely. Yet still—but of course not! He couldn't speak. H'm. No." He pinched up his chin reflectively. "Well, go on. Then what happened?"
"Well, when they were ready, Count Estamar came down to me privately, and asked me to appoint two plain-clothes men to watch over his son from the time he left the Alterian consulate, here, at eleven o'clock, until he reached Dover, where the papers were to be handed over to another envoy. The Count thought that he could trust these valuable papers to no one better than his own son."
"Certainly; but if he was so afraid of an attempt being made on them, why didn't he go himself, instead of sending the boy?"
Mr. Narkom frowned.
"Yes," he agreed musingly; "I thought of that myself. But his reasons were quite natural ones. He was undergoing a severe attack of gout, and, as a matter of fact, had to be lifted in and out of his carriage to come in to me."
"Rather a wonder he didn't send for you at the consulate, wasn't it?"
"No. He didn't want his son to know that he had invoked the aid of the police, so—"
"Oho!" said Cleek, with a strong rising inflection. "So the young man didn't know he was being watched over, eh? And who did you entrust with that peculiar duty, Mr. Narkom?"
"Petrie and Hammond."
"H'm! They're trustworthy enough, if not particularly brainy. I should have thought there wouldn't be much chance of 'spoofing' them, as the saying is. But you never know, as the old maid said when the young man winked at her."
"Well, it seems, as far as I can make out," went on Mr. Narkom gravely, "that young Estamar came out of the consulate, after receiving the papers; had a taxicab summoned and directed to Victoria in order to catch the 11.40 Dover express. Our men followed at a discreet distance. When he reached Grosvenor Road, however, he evidently gave fresh directions to the driver, and off he went to this empty house in Harebourn Square. The next thing he was blown to pieces before the very eyes of Petrie and Hammond. No sight or sound of a bomb or shot; not a soul in sight but the two police officers; the house and room empty, as they could see by their glasses. And there's the whole case in a nutshell. What do you make of it, old chap?"
"H'm!" said Cleek. "A remarkably thick shell to crack—that's what I make of it. And what has been done so far?"
"Nothing," admitted the Superintendent, somewhat apologetically. "I had to communicate with Count Estamar, who is almost crazed with grief; he has had the body identified and removed by special permission, to his own house, and—"
"I presume you are taking me there now. Is that so?" struck in Cleek with a smile.
Mr. Narkom fidgeted with his watch chain.
"Well, yes," he admitted. "Count Estamar asked if Mr. Cleek could be induced to take the case up. Sir Henry Wilding had told him about you. So I said I would do my best, and see if you would."
Cleek paused a moment and sat studying the distance through the square of window, with a ridge between his brows. Finally:
"Oh, well!" said he in an even tone. "I've a fancy to be out of town myself, so you might put Lieutenant Deland on the job this time; and, with your permission, as you've literally kidnapped me, I'll use your locker, and fix that gentleman up. Tell Lennard to drive round through the park to Curzon Street; that is, unless you are going to the consulate? No? Well, all right, then." And while Mr. Narkom gave the necessary instructions, his famous ally pulled down the blinds, whipped open that useful receptacle, and was soon busy in transforming himself into the smart young army officer who belonged to a regiment that never existed.
"HERE we are at last," said Mr. Narkom, as the limousine drew up in front of a house in Curzon Street, which house agents would fitly describe as "a palatial residence." This was the Count Estamar's town house, but it presented a funereal appearance, with its closely drawn blinds and dark, wooden shutters.
The Superintendent jumped out of the limousine, and with Cleek at his heels, went clattering up the wide stone steps to the great front door. Two minutes later they were ushered into the presence of Count Friedrich Estamar himself.
There are few sadder sights than a grief-stricken parent, and as Cleek looked on the haggard, despairing face and silver hair, his heart beat in sympathy. A mist swam up in front of his eyes for an instant, blotting out everything but this sad, sorrowing old man.
Then Count Estamar fairly leaped forward and threw himself upon Cleek.
"Thank Heaven you have come so swiftly. But, alas! it is too late," he said in a low, broken voice. "I cannot realize it yet. Forgive my grief, Lieutenant—Lieutenant Deland, I think you said, Mr. Narkom? It has all happened so suddenly, the full horror of it is hardly believable. He was my only son, my bonny boy. So brave, so true, and now this—this would make it appear that he was a traitor to his country, a traitor to me, who trusted him with something dearer to me than my life—my honour. Oh, it is terrible, awful!"
Cleek let his eyes rest upon the stricken man with an infinite pity in their depths. But he said nothing. And finally the Count continued:
"Only the preceding night he swore to die sooner than let any harm come to his charge—only the preceding night."
"He may have been lured there," Cleek said gently, and even as he spoke came a sound which made him switch round on his heel, the sound of a woman's laugh, short and sharp and hard, which grated horribly upon his ears.
He turned to look into the eyes of a girl, sweet-faced and smiling, like a young lily sprung up suddenly in the darkness of the sombre room.
She was standing between the crimson plush curtains that screened off one room from the other, and it was evident that she had heard Cleek's remark. He did not need the introduction to tell him that this was Adela, Countess von Altburg, nor did he need a keen eye to detect that she was suffering not only the pangs of grief, but of wounded love as well.
"Lured there, you said, Lieutenant Deland?" she reiterated, when they had seated themselves.
"Then why did he have a key handy, and why was he talking so earnestly to a woman, promising to meet her at that same house only this very morning, so engrossed that he never heard me call to him? He had locked himself in the study here so that he should not be disturbed. Lured, indeed! Oh, no; there is no help for it. He was a traitor, a traitor to his country and to me, and he deserved his fate. But he did not get the papers; at least, I saved our country from that."
The old Count sprang to his feet suddenly and seized her arm.
"But he did, Adela!" cried he in a strangely blurred, forsaken voice. "My God! child, why did you let him leave the house at all? Why did you permit this dishonour to fall upon us, if you knew?"
She looked at him for a moment with horror-stricken eyes.
"What do you mean, Uncle Friedrich?" she said swiftly. "Egon didn't have them then, he said so; I heard him with my own ears, and I nearly went mad. But directly he had gone I flew to the 'phone and told you, begging you to hold the package over, and you promised me you would. That is why I never thought of them till now."
"But I wasn't there," broke in the Count disjointedly. "I had a message from the War Office, and went across there, unwillingly enough, for my gout had been giving me a bad half hour. So I locked up the papers in the safe and locked up my office as well, and went over, to find out afterward that a mistake had been made. When I got back, I found my son had come and gone again, taking the papers with him."
Cleek lifted a silencing hand.
"How could he do that," he said quietly, in his smooth, even tones, "if you had locked up the safe yourself, Count? Had he a duplicate key?"
"Yes. I told you I had trusted my son with something dearer than life. That was it. He possessed duplicate keys to everything that I had that was of value."
"I see, I see."
Cleek stood a moment, pinching his chin reflectively. Then he switched round upon the Countess.
"The woman?" he said serenely. "I suppose you do not know her name?"
"As it happens, I do," threw in the Countess with a fierce little laugh. "Oh, I know it was hardly honourable, but I listened; you see, I loved him better than life itself, and when I heard him speak to her in endearing terms, I think my heart stopped beating. I could have killed her with my bare hands, that cat of a Frenchwoman. I—" Her voice trailed off into silence, for, of a sudden, Cleek's head went up, and a queer light shone in his eyes.
"Tell me her name," he said quietly, his eyes upon her face.
"He called her Margot. I do not know what the last name is."
"Margot!"
The word sprang involuntarily from Cleek's lips. Mr. Narkom echoed it blankly.
Then the Countess gave a little sharp, in taken breath.
"You know her, too!" she said with some suspicion in her voice. "Who is she? What is she?"
"Head of the worst gang of Continental spies in existence," gave back Cleek grimly. "That's who she is—the devil! Arid if that poor boy got into her cursed clutches——"
He stopped suddenly, and let the rest of the sentence go by default. For the Count, with a little groan, had sunk back into his chair and covered his face with his shaking hands.
"That accounts for the delay in getting through to you on the telephone," cried the Countess in a very frenzy of despair. "It must have been quite ten minutes before you answered me—"
"Ample time for Egon to have got round there and imitated my voice," gave back the Count in a hushed voice. "My God! I would rather have died before this came to me; rather have died than that he, my son, should have proved himself a traitor."
Cleek waited a moment, and then threw in a quick question.
"What country are these treaties affecting, Count Estamar? Or can't you tell me?" he said quietly.
"A little kingdom called Maurevania. It is combining with Italy against us, and I am not betraying any State secret in telling you that if Italy could have destroyed them, so as to leave no trace behind, they would have paid untold gold. They want further time, and the loss of these papers means that they have got it. But what has that to do with my son?"
"Nothing, save that it might be that Power behind Margot," said Cleek. "But we shall see. Meanwhile, Mr. Narkom has told me about your son's companion, Mr. Tarleschen. Might I see him for a few moments?"
Count Estamar's face became even graver.
"It is a veritable house of misfortune," he said sadly. "Poor Fritz! Though, as a matter of fact, it is far better that he is unconscious of this last shock. He loved Egon better than a brother, he idolized him, as, indeed, we all did."
"Yes, yes; but where is he?" rapped out Cleek; and the Count looked up in surprise at his impatience.
"Tarleschen had the misfortune to be knocked down when crossing Regent Street late last night; the car got away in the darkness. Egon, who must have been motoring down there half an hour after he left me, was passing at the time, and his horror on seeing Fritz injured can be imagined. He pushed his way through the crowd to the boy, picked him up, and drove him down to Charing Cross Hospital. Afterward he rang, me tip and told me all about it. I intended to go down and see the lad this morning, but this—" He stopped abruptly, and said no more. Cleek, with a sudden intaking of the breath, leaned forward and bent his eyes upon the old man's face.
"Did any message come?" he said at last.
"No, there was no post at all," put in Countess Adela, "and only Egon's new hat, sent on at the last minute from Leath's. It came, as a matter of fact, while he was in the study, and was the cause of my being nearly discovered. Egon unlocked the door and tried the hat on then and there, going downstairs in it."
The curious little one-sided smile looped up the corner of Cleek's mouth.
"Well, there's nothing to be gained from that," he murmured in a low voice. "And so, Maurevania, we shall cross swords again!"
Then he turned abruptly to the Count.
"Count," he said quietly, "forgive me if I inflict an unpleasant duty on you, but I must see the body of your son. I understand it has been brought here, and I do not wish to ask the Countess."
The old man shivered, and rose reluctantly. But before he could speak the young Countess had intervened.
"No, no, lieutenant. Pray do not consider my feelings. I am no weak, helpless girl. Do not give yourself fresh pain, Uncle Friedrich"—she turned almost caressingly to the old man—"I will lead Lieutenant Deland to the room."
She switched about, her long, trailing dress dragging behind her like the tail feathers of a peacock; and the two men followed her, half admiring her for her courage, half wondering at her callousness.
"A woman scorned," muttered Cleek; but he said nothing more, only bent over the mutilated body of what had evidently been a man of fine build and figure. It was not a pleasant duty, and directly he had seen it and examined the one arm left uninjured, he replaced the sheet, stooping to pick up some shreds of cotton-wool which had fallen down at the side of the hastily improvised bier.
The sight of a brand-new leather hat box seemed to rivet his attention, and he picked it up.
"This is the box, I suppose? A nice box. I could do with that myself," he said; and the Countess Adela looked at him scornfully.
"You are welcome to it," she said bitingly. "Anything that he ever touched should be burnt, if I had my way. A traitor to his country, a traitor to the father who worshipped him, and to me who trusted him! Come; the very room stifles me. I regret nothing—nothing!" she cried fiercely, and turning abruptly, left the room.
Cleek smiled oddly; then, to Mr. Narkom's intense surprise, picked up the hat box and brought it downstairs with him.
In the hall, a ray of sunlight had streamed through the drawn blinds, and, striking one of the cut-glass prisms of the chandelier in the high roof, sent many little shafts of rainbow-coloured light zigzagging across the marble floor. At sight of them Cleek's face went suddenly gray, curiously pinched, curiously tired.
"Impossible!" he said softly. "Utterly impossible! And yet, if it is—"
He plunged down the stairs, at the bottom of which stood the Count looking the very picture of grief and sorrow.
"Count," he said in a strangely quick voice, "I should like to make a few inquiries at the consulate, if you don't mind, for some possible clues; and I may have something to report at the end of the day. Thanks. Come along, Mr. Narkom."
He scuttled down the steps, followed by the bewildered Superintendent, and gave the direction to Lennard to "streak it" to Harebourn Square.
Lennard "streaked it" forthwith, and as the door closed behind them and they were alone, Mr. Narkom leaned forward and laid a hand upon Cleek's arm.
"Any ideas, old chap?" he said eagerly. But he hardly expected the reply Cleek gave him.
"Heaps!" said that gentleman enigmatically. "Heaps. But the solution lies in the rainbow, and those who made it, and if I only knew whether Count Egon used scented soap or not, I should be able to tell you a good deal more. At present, you shall go on to Harebourn Square, and I will join you there in half an hour; if I haven't discovered something then, you may enjoy the tremendous pleasure of calling me a silly ass."
Mr. Narkom laughed, then he grunted admiringly, and as the limousine had slowed down on account of the traffic, Cleek unlatched the door, flashed it open, flashed it shut again, and he was gone, hat box and all, leaving the puzzled Superintendent to make what he could out of a jumble of remarks, chief among which was a ridiculous allusion to "scented soap."
IT was a good half hour before Cleek arrived at the house in Harebourn Square, around which had been placed a cordon of police to keep back the curious crowd; but at a word from Mr. Narkom, who bad been on tenterhooks till he saw the approach of his ally, this was broken to allow Cleek to pass through.
Strangely enough, very little damage had been done to the actual room, and Cleek was able to examine it thoroughly. As Hammond had said, the floor was covered with one unbroken piece of linoleum, and it was self-evident that the invisible death had come from above and not below. It was a well-nigh impenetrable mystery, and Cleek stood looking down on the mess of plaster and bricks, pondering upon it with a little ridge between his brows. Suddenly a particle of black caught his eye, and he swooped down on it joyously with a little yap of delight.
"Got it!" he shouted. "Blithering idiot that I am! Why didn't I guess it before? That stuff could be knocked about until—Of course—" He plunged out of the room, and down the steps, until he got to the line of policemen.
"I want the man on point duty," he flung out; then his eyes lit up again as a tall man stepped forward and saluted. "You, Boyce, is it? That's good. A man of your intelligence is bound to have noted something in this case. How many houses are there in this square altogether, and who live in them? Do you know?"
"Yes, sir, as it happens, I do," was the alert response. "There are only eight. We have had this house in view a long time, and the other inhabitants of the eight houses are much annoyed about their privacy being broken in upon like this. This is the list."
He handed it to Cleek, who perused it with a sort of intensified eagerness, then handed it back to the man.
"No use climbing up that tree, then. Were there any suspicious characters in the square this morning— organ-grinders, or carts—when the explosion occurred?"
"No, sir; only a pantechnicon."
"Anybody moving?"
"No, sir; that's what made me look at it, not expecting to see one in a closed square like this, that and the funny look of the driver's seat. I took the name and address. Here it is, sir. Dallington & Co., Furnival Street. But when the explosion occurred, of course I rushed off, and I expect the van drove away, for I didn't see it again."
"H'm! And what was the funny part about the van's appearance?" put in Cleek placidly, twisting up in his fingers the tiny scrap of black stuff that lay in his hand.
Boyce gave an apologetic laugh.
"Nothing much, sir," said he, "but it struck me queer for it to be lined throughout with zinc. I couldn't help but think it was pretty cold to sit upon, and with a door at their back—Why, lor' lumme, what is it, sir?" for Cleek gave vent to a little cry of unalloyed delight.
"The clever devils!" he rapped out sharply. "The clever devils! Splendid, Boyce, my lad. A lucky thing for you. This means promotion." Then he turned to the Superintendent, who was standing near. "I know all I want to know now, Mr. Narkom," he said serenely, and straightway made for the limousine.
But at the door of it he paused, pulled out his notebook, scribbled something on a leaf, and put it into Mr. Narkom's hand. "Find out if that address is right, and bring it to me at the Count's house in Curzon Street. I've got just one call to make, and I'll join you there in half an hour."
Then he hopped into the limousine and was off in a jiffy, pelting down the road at a pace that ate up the distance like a cat lapping cream.
And it was barely half an hour later when the Superintendent, pale with excitement, rushed up to the door of the house in Curzon Street, and was admitted once more into the presence of Count Estamar and the Countess Adela. As he did so, there came the whirr of a motor, and to his immense relief "Lieutenant Deland," immaculate as ever, stepped from it, and mounted the steps, smiling serenely.
"Right, was I, Mr. Narkom?" he queried, smilingly, as he entered the room and made his way to the Superintendent's side.
"Good lord! yes. Right as rain, old chap. The hospital authorities had never even heard of the accident, much less seen him."
"Good! And while you have been losing a patient at one hospital, I have been finding one at another." He turned back to the door and opened it. Outside, there was a confused hubbub of voices, and in the doorway appeared two servants, half carrying the bandaged figure of a man.
"Egon!" cried both the Count and Countess together; and they sped to him like two arrows impelled by a single bow.
Traitor or not, it was evident that affection still reigned in the hearts of both father and fiancee for this man who had faced death so shortly before.
"Get him to bed quickly," interposed Cleek, "or the doctors will not answer for his ultimate recovery. See; they are waiting." He waved to the door, where appeared a silk-hatted figure and two hospital nurses, who, in a twinkling, had recovered their patient and carried him off to a room upstairs to which a soft-footed servant led them.
"But what does it mean? Who is that other?" Count Estamar made a gesture as referring to the dead man upstairs.
"Who should it be," gave back Cleek grimly, "but the traitor, the ingrate, Gustave Moselle, alias Fritz Tarleschen, hoist with his own petard."
"Fritz! My God! Fritz!" broke out the Count excitedly. "It is incredible—impossible! Fritz! Then does it mean that Egon, my son, is not, after all—"
"A—traitor," concluded Cleek softly, with a tender smile. "No, Count, no traitor comes from your line, after all. The bonny boy! How was it possible that such as he could betray his country? No, Countess von Altburg, you let your jealousy run away with you when you fancied it was your lover talking to the head of the Apache gang. Indeed, it was Tarleschen, clad in his clothing, and—"
"But he could not speak," protested the girl, her eyes shining.
"He pretended he could not," was the grim reply. "But Be could speak well enough when, having borrowed Count Egon's car, he followed in the wake of his beloved young master, and, having seen him run down by a member of the Apache gang, came forward and identified him as Fritz Tarleschen. Then, like a good Samaritan, he offered to drive him down to the hospital. That he did not do so, Mr. Narkom has just proved; but I was doubly sure, because I picked Count Egon up myself, stripped of all his belongings, on Hampstead Heath this morning, and I drove him to the Cottage Hospital there. The only word he could say was 'Tarleschen.' He was evidently crossing the road to get to his friend when he was knocked down. I reckoned that it was his own name till I heard of the other accident. It was Tarleschen's idea to leave him to die on the Heath, where he threw him out of the car, so that he could make up like him and sell the plans to the French spies. He must have had a fright when the Countess von Altburg rang up at the consulate.
"Unfortunately for our friend, the Italian spies had had their eye on these papers, and had evidently found out that Count Egon was going to take them; and they determined to experiment with their new and latest discovery, the ultra-violet rays. You've seen the diagram of the spectrum, Countess, and, as you know, white light is composed of the seven prismatic colours; but there are other rays on either side of the visible spectrum—those on the red being heat rays, and on the violet, the chemical, cathode and Röntgen rays, and smaller ones still, known collectively as the ultra-violet rays. Now, given the right exploding materials, these rays will go right through bricks, stone, earth, aluminum, or anything else you may care to experiment on, but are stopped by zinc. So when I found that a zinc-cased pantechnicon had stopped outside the house on the other side of the square, I knew what had happened. Yet, on such little things do big events hang, and had not Tarleschen stopped to steal the Count's hat, even then he would have escaped.
"What's that, Mr. Narkom? What had the hat got to do with it? Everything, for it was lined with the new gun cotton, which is composed largely of nitryl, and can be handled as roughly as you please until the disintegrating powers of the chemical rays of light are applied. I found a piece of the hat, and examined the hat box, which was obviously one of foreign make, and not, therefore, belonging to Leath's, of Oxford Street. It hardly needed my inquiry there to tell me that they had sent neither boy nor hat box. Probably the telephone was tapped, and when Mr. Tarleschen laid his plans with Margot, the Maurevanians, acting with the Italian spies, followed on with their death-dealing pantechnicon. I expect they reckoned to wipe out the French spies. At any rate, they didn't attain their object."
Cleek stopped, and fumbling in his pocket, brought out an officially sealed envelope, upon which Count Estamar threw himself and opened it with trembling fingers.
"Where—where was it?" he exclaimed, as he ran the precious papers through his fingers, as if to assure himself of their actual presence.
Cleek's eyes twinkled.
"In Count Egon's red flannel chest protector, which Tarleschen never thought of touching. I expect he must have had some fears himself, and possibly he came back and left a dummy copy in the consulate, and sewed up the real things next to his own brave young heart. With care he should pull through, and he never should know how he was misjudged by those nearest and dearest to him."
The Count looked at the young Countess, the Countess sent her eyes back to the old Count's; then their heads came together.
Cleek turned away. Who was he but an outsider to intrude upon their joy? He smiled serenely at the Superintendent.
"What's that, Mr. Narkom? The soap?" said he. "Why, when I picked up my patient, he smelt strongly of soap scented with 'Ambre Idéal,' but the supposed Count did not. To make absolutely sure, however, I rang up his valet. The answer was 'Yes.' His master was particularly partial to a certain pink-coloured soap, somewhat highly scented, which he acquired from Paris. So there, you see, is the whole matter in a nutshell."
He turned back once more to where the old Count stood looking at him out of grateful, tear-wet eyes, with the Countess Adela clinging to his arm.
"Lieutenant," said that gentleman brokenly, in a mere thread of a voice, "Lieutenant Deland, how can I thank you for what you have done? How can I? Had it not been for you, my son would surely have died out there upon the Heath, hidden in the cloak of a traitor, and dishonour would have fallen upon my family's name. As it is—"
He threw out his hands, shrugged his shoulders, and let the rest of the sentence go by default, while Cleek, with a whimsical smile, put out his hand toward the Countess's, and raised hers to his lips.
"Good-bye, Countess," he said quietly, "and God bless the pair of you. You've a bonny boy in that future husband of yours, and he has a proud lady for whom he should be justly thankful. Good-bye, Count; good-bye. Don't mention it. I assure you, anything I have done has been more than a pleasure, for it has but helped to preserve the honour of a great gentleman, and to show that the same staunch, honourable blood flows in his son's veins as in his own."
He picked up his hat and gloves, touched Mr. Narkom upon the arm, strode over to the door, and then stood in the frame of it, erect, tall, every inch of him equal to the man whom he had served; a gentleman, indeed, with a gentleman's bearing and the unmistakable stamp of the aristocrat upon him.
"Ah, Count," said he in a low, even voice, "just one more little thing. My name, by the way, is not Deland, as you have supposed, but Cleek—just Cleek of Scotland Yard. I thought, under the circumstances, you might be glad to know."
Then, before they could so much as answer, he swung upon his heel, and, still smiling, went down and out into the hot August sunshine, with Mr. Narkom at his heels.
"CINNAMON! Cleek. That was a near squeak of tumbling up against both of them," ejaculated Mr. Narkom as they turned into Hyde Park and swung along at a leisurely pace. "Who was to think of Margot joining the Count in an attempt to steal the plans? Jewels are more in her line."
"All's fish that falls into her net," said Cleek sharply. "I remember—" He broke off, a spasm of pain compressing his lips. The memory was hardly a pleasant one. He shook his shoulders as though he would cast off the very thought.
They reached Scotland Yard at last, its red brick turrets shining hotly in the rays of the fierce sun.
"Come in with me, there's a dear chap," said the Superintendent imploringly. "If I left you out here for three minutes, it's a ducat to a guinea that those French beauties would be on you before I could say Jack Robinson."
Cleek gave a little laugh as his eyes swept the courtyard. "I shouldn't be surprised," he began, and stopped short.
Mr. Narkom looked up in the direction of his gaze, and took in as quickly as his famous ally the presence of two olive-skinned young French boys.
"Sentinels on the watch! Cinnamon! old chap." He turned to speak to his companion, but the pavement was empty beside him; noiselessly, like the shadow which ominously had dimmed the radiance of the sun above them, Cleek had vanished. The courtyard was empty save for a huddled-up figure of a drunken or sleeping man lying curled up in a doorway like an outcast mongrel, his clothes covered with dust, his hat battered in over his eyes.
Slowly the young French Apaches, for so indeed they were, passed down, and after giving a look up and down the little street, ran swiftly out of sight. But Hammond, at a signal from his chief, was after them.
"Wonder where that astonishing beggar vanished to," said Mr. Narkom dejectedly, as he mopped his forehead with the purplest of purple bandana handkerchiefs.
"Another narrow squeak," came the voice of "that astonishing beggar" almost from the ground itself, and the recumbent, dust-laden figure rose in front of the amazed Superintendent. "It means a wash and a change, my dear Narkom," he continued, laughing at his friend's face. "Still, it was the best I could do at such short notice."
He entered the building, and the Superintendent, his portly figure forming a substantial shield against rear attacks, trotted in after him.
It was some ten minutes later that, the Yard's business having been transacted by the Yard's "gentleman," Cleek sat, spick and span, in one of the tweed suits always kept for him in Mr. Narkom's own room, a cigarette between his lips, and upon his face an expression of supreme content. He was only waiting now for the next hour to pass, when it would find him with Ailsa, who was travelling up to town for the express purpose of spending the day with Lieutenant Deland of the non-existent regiment of Guards.
Suddenly Mr. Narkom gave vent to a little bleat of astonishment. He was reading Petrie's report of the day, when down went the paper, and thump went his fist on the table before him, without hint or warning, and Cleek chopped off the sentence of inquiry before it was half evolved.
"Golly! But they've gone, fled the country, old chap; given it up as a bad job, eh? Bully boy, Petrie! I thought we'd hound 'em out before we were done." He laughed shrilly, then turned to Cleek, who sat watching him, a curious little smile creeping round his lips.
"It's that precious Count and the Margot gang," he said, his exuberance of joy and relief subsiding a little. "Petrie says they left together by the early boat-train to Paris. So that's all right; you can have your day in safety, and as Miss Lorne is with Lennard in the limousine by this time, there can be no possible danger."
But Cleek was by no means sure of this, and disregarding all the Superintendent's arguments, he rose to take his departure.
"If Irma and Margot have gone back so publicly," he said, a curious note underlying the smoothness of his tones, "you may rest assured that there are others of the gang left on the track. I could almost wish Ailsa were not coming up to-day."
Never was human wish granted so swiftly, for even as the words left his lips, there came the sharp ting of the telephone bell, and a minute later, Mr. Narkom was told that it was Ailsa Lorne herself speaking from the Hampton Court cottage, between which and Scotland Yard Cleek had taken the precaution of fitting up telephone wires for additional safety.
Away went Cleek to the instrument, to learm that Ailsa had developed a summer cold, and was going to postpone the trip for a few days. Cleek's proposal that he should come to her was gently but firmly negatived. There was nothing to be done but betake himself to Clarges Street for a lonely afternoon. And as he crossed the familiar stones of Leicester Square, Cleek's sharp eyes saw the unmistakable figure of Irma, Count of Maurevania; and his heart leaped suddenly with mingled relief and joy at the thought that Ailsa all unconsciously had kept out of danger.
"So the other was a blind, the artful old fox!" he ejaculated, as he went on his way.
And that was why, when Narkom rang him up for a case that was to puzzle half the world, Cleek had already betaken himself out of the house again, and into fresh regions undreamed of by Apache or Maurevanian.
It was just an hour later when Mr. Narkom, having responded to a hurried summons from the Chief's room, issued therefrom as worried a man as it would be possible to find in a day's search. He made a dash to the 'phone and began to talk excitedly to the person at the other end.
"Yes, yes! I quite understand, Dollops; got to be very careful, eh? All right. Where is he? What—Kensington Gardens? Might have known that, though, at this time of the year. Yes. Fair-haired, usual military getup; Lieutenant Deland, I suppose? All right! Thank you; that's all. Good-bye."
Mr. Narkom replaced the receiver with a sigh, pushed aside the telephone, took pen in hand, and wrote out a few necessary instructions for his staff to follow. Then, having done all this, he put on his hat, picked up his gloves and walking stick from a nearby table, and swung out into the summer sunshine, prepared to spend the morning, if necessary, in Kensington Gardens, in pursuit of his famous ally.
A few minutes later the limousine, under the guiding hand of Lennard, threaded its way skillfully through the dense traffic of Hyde Park Corner, which was crowded with sightseers who had been watching the morning riders in the Row.
"This will be about the nearest, I think, sir," said Lennard presently, discreetly using the speaking-tube. "You said opposite the De Vere Hotel, and here is the first gateway, if you don't mind looking, sir.
"Yes," said Mr. Narkom eagerly, "this is about the place; but drive right on slowly to Kensington; we've got to be careful, it seems. I'll get out at Harker's, and you can follow round by the Albert Hall."
"Right you are, sir."
Obeying instructions, Lennard let the car meander at a snail's pace, his sharp eyes fixed now upon the passing traffic, and now on the stream of leisurely pedestrians that swarmed the pavements on either side of him. Just outside the large drapers, he swung into line with the long string of carriages and cars that lined the roadway, and the Superintendent stepped out. He wore a brown suit and a bowler hat and a pair of rather shabby yellow cotton gloves, while from one hand swung a big cardboard box, presumably containing samples. He nodded curtly to Lennard, then, mingling with the shoppers on the pavement, was soon lost to view. But not for long. Ten minutes later, he returned to exchange the box for a black attaché case, and then once more disappeared.
This time he bent his steps back through the High Street, and thence into the beautiful gardens which surround what was once the country seat of royalty.
A few minutes' quiet strolling brought him within sight of his quarry, a young gentleman immaculately dressed, sporting an eyeglass, lemon-coloured kid gloves, and the very latest atrocity in walking canes. He looked up with bored indifference, staring insolently at the Superintendent as he stopped in the pathway and looked down at him. Then Mr. Narkom brought himself abruptly to the salute.
"Beg your pardon, sir, but you're Lieutenant Deland, aren't you? I'm Sergeant Smith of the old regiment. Don't suppose you remember me, sir, but I thought I wasn't mistaken."
The handsome officer sprawled himself out, and screwed his monocle tighter into his eye.
"Can't say that I do, my good man," drawled he; "still I don't mind refreshing my memory. Nice morning for a walk; I'll stroll back to the barracks with you, if you like."
"Proud to have you, sir," said the delighted sergeant, clicking his heels together as an old flower-seller seated upon an adjacent bench arose with her basket, and shuffled off in the opposite direction, and Cleek gave vent to a little bark of pleasure.
"Bravo, Mr. Narkom!" he said in his low, smooth voice, as the Superintendent smiled into his face; "you've the makings of an actor in you. Dollops evidently warned you what to expect."
"Yes," assented Narkom; "he was very mysterious. Have you any suspicion that you are being followed? I have taken tremendous precautions, and sent out Hammond and Petrie in the other car.
"Yes," said Cleek, as he leaned back and sniffed the rose-scented air contentedly. "Get ahead, anyhow, Mr. Narkom, for I suppose it's another case, or you wouldn't have wormed my whereabouts out of that young scamp Dollops."
"You're right; it is a case!" said the Superintendent excitedly, swinging into his story at once. "It's partly a Government affair, too; in fact, I might say it's a national affair. Nearly bowled me over, by James! when the chief told me about it; for I was only speaking to the man two days ago, and he had every right to live another twenty years."
"Which means, I take it, that he has died suddenly?"
"Died? It's worse than that, my friend. It's murder—downright wicked, diabolical murder, and just when he had completed the greatest of all his numerous inventions. And the worst of it is, there's absolutely no clue as to how the crime was committed; the door was locked on the inside, and the room has no windows whatsoever."
"What's that?" said Cleek, arching his eyebrows. "No windows? How's that?"
"It's a laboratory, lit day and night by electric light, with ventilation from the top. To all appearances he had fallen asleep at the desk; but it's murder, for all that."
"H'm-m!" said Cleek, stroking his chin. "Sounds pretty queer, Mr. Narkom. Let's have the facts, please. First of all, who was the gentleman? Somebody of importance to the Government, I presume, eh?"
"Of the very greatest, in the military world," replied Mr. Narkom excitedly. "He is, or, I should say was, poor fellow, an English inventor. You've heard of him—Edward C. Wharnecliffe."
"Oho!" said Cleek in two different tones; "that man, eh? Oh, yes, everybody has heard of him, I should think. He's the man who conceived the idea of that long-distance gun for aiming at aeroplanes; invented a new oil engine for working turbines. That's the man, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's the man. Well, for the last six months he has been experimenting on the subject of smokeless powders, and the Government had fitted up a special laboratory in the cellars of the War Office. All doorways save one were bricked up, special ventilating and lighting apparatus were installed, and a guard set day and night in the passages; And, my dear chap, there isn't a crevice by which so much as a rat could have entered!" Mr. 'Narkom paused dramatically. Then he went on: "And yet, just as he had completed the formula of the new powder (fluorite, or 'golden rain,' as he had nicknamed it) he was found stone dead in his chair, with neither mark nor bruise to show when he had met his death, or by what means. At the post mortem the doctors declared his heart to be sound as a bell. The Chief says that, despite all the secrecy observed, there have been several attempts made to get at Wharnecliffe;' in fact, one Power had offered him half a million."
"And how did Mr. Wharnecliffe take this offer? Was he tempted by it, or don't you know?" said Cleek.
"As it happens, I do know," replied the Superintendent, "for amongst his letters were copies of the letter and his answer, and he evidently told them he'd see them hanged, drawn, and quartered before he would give any other country save his own the benefit of his discovery."
"Bravo!" said Cleek, slapping his palms together, "that's the true patriot's spirit, Mr. Narkom. It isn't every man who would refuse half a million of money for the sake of a most ungrateful country; and I don't suppose he was a rich man, by any means."
"He wasn't. That's why the Government supplied him with the laboratory and one of their most trusted typists to render him clerical assistance."
"Ah, here comes the second party! Who is this young gentleman? One of Albania's flowers of nobility, or a German prince in disguise?"
"Neither, my dear chap; a young lady, a Miss Carsholt."
"Carsholt—Carsholt?" rapped out Cleek. "Any relation to that Carsholt—Colonel Carsholt, I think—who won the V.C. at Ladysmith, and died of his wounds later?"
"Yes—"
"H'm-m!" Cleek pinched his chin harder, and scowled at the waving trees as if he bore them a personal grudge. "Tell me," he blurted out at last, "wasn't there something about another brother who went out from England to America for the newspaper on which he was working, and got mixed up in some of the political riots?"
The Superintendent nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes! George Carsholt was that chap's name. Well, he turned up again six months ago, apparently fairly well off. He had been searching everywhere for his brother and his family, and at last was directed by the War Office to the boarding-house where Marion and her brother lived. Mr. Carsholt promptly took the rest of the house, and has since been like a father to them, poor youngsters! They've evidently had a struggle since their father's death, for his pension was discontinued, and they were absolutely friendless and alone."
Cleek twitched up an inquiring eyebrow. "Ah, just so! So the War Office accuses Miss Carsholt of murdering their inventor, does it?"
"Great Scott! no. They can't do that, because, although she was the last to be in the room with him, the guard heard Miss Carsholt talking to Wharnecliffe as she stood at the door."
"And what did Miss Carsholt say?"
"She said, 'I shan't be more than an hour, Mr. Wharnecliffe,' and the old man answered her, 'Be as long as you like, Miss Carsholt; my work is finished.' Then the guard heard him lock the door after her. Poor old chap! it was finished indeed, for an hour later, when Miss Carsholt came back, she could get no answer to her knocking, and eventually the door had to be blasted open, and they found him dead in his chair. He had evidently been testing the 'golden rain,' for there were matches and test tubes lying about, and on his writing pad were scribbled a few incoherent words with no real meaning; still, I brought the sheet away for you to see."
The Superintendent handed Cleek a slip of paper on which was scribbled, illegibly:
"Wrong—Miss Carsholt—tray—country."
"Meaning, therefore, that Miss Carsholt had committed a wrong and betrayed her country."
"You think so?" asked Cleek serenely, the queer little one-sided smile looping up the corners of his mouth.
"Decidedly. What else? But, whether he committed suicide, or was murdered (and I believe the latter) goodness only knows. What is more, an hour afterward, the Chief learned through secret service channels that the formula was partly known-to some foreign Power, and that they were only waiting for the experiments to be finished. They must have got this through Miss Carsholt in some way; at least, the War Office says so; and they have dismissed her practically at a moment's notice, and placed the matter in the hands of the Yard."
"Ah! So that's the way the cat jumps, is it?" mused Cleek, laying a finger along his cheek and staring up into the canopy of blue overhead. "Well, I think, if you don't mind, that I'll come and have a look into things. I should like to see the brother, too," he added abruptly. "That is, if you have their private address."
"Yes; of course. Here it is: 19 Kesteven Terrace, South Belgravia," said Mr. Narkom, consulting his notebook with studious eyes. They came upon another bench, and as they sat down upon it, a shadow grotesquely long in the sunshine fell across the path, and at sight of it Cleek sprang up with a little cry of pleasure and put out an ungloved hand.
"Ailsa!" he said tenderly, as she stopped at sight of him and gave bent to a glad little laugh. "You dear! You!"
"I was shopping at Harker's," she gave back, laughingly, flushed at the light that was in his eyes, at the note that was in his voice. "I felt so much better after all, that I thought I might make the journey to town. It was such a beautiful day and I wanted to see you, even if I did put you off! I want you to help a friend of mine. Her name is Marion Carsholt."
Mr. Narkom whistled. "The very case we are on now," he said in surprise.
"You may be doubly sure of my attention now," threw in Cleek, laughing down into the Superintendent's flushed face. "Lead, and I will follow, Ailsa. I have heard Mr. Narkom's side of the story; now let me hear yours."
Ten minutes later Ailsa left them, her eyes alight, and her heart beating high with hope, while Mr. Narkom and his famous ally jumped into the limousine, and made their way to South Belgravia.
IT was exactly half-past twelve when Lieutenant Arthur Deland, a big, handsome, fair-haired and fair-moustached fellow, stood with Mr. Narkom on the white steps of a somewhat dingy house. They were shown into the Carsholt's general sitting-room, and straight into the presence of the brother and sister.
"If you don't mind giving me the facts, Miss Carsholt," said Superintendent Narkom, "I should like to hear what Lieutenant Deland thinks of it."
"Ye-es," drawled Cleek. "Supposing"—he turned casually on Marion—"you tell me all about this 'golden rain' business. I'd awfully like to hear. Sort of fireworks, I suppose; something of the Crystal Palace sort, eh, what?"
"No, indeed, lieutenant; it's a smokeless explosive—but beyond that I can tell you nothing. I have never mentioned a word about my work to any one; have I, Vernon?"
"I'll take my oath on that. Why, we never even knew she was working in the beastly dark hole of a laboratory until two days ago, when Uncle George found the acid stains on one of her shoes."
"What's that?" said Cleek, his eyes beginning to snap. "Acid stains?"
"Yes; a little sulphuric acid fell on one of them, and Uncle George noticed it. It worried him to think of my being near such dangerous liquids."
"Doesn't he understand chemistry?"
"Not he," laughed Vernon Carsholt faintly. "Dear old chap! I believe he'd dip his finger into a jar of prussic acid and then taste it to see if it were poisonous."
"Bless him! he thought it was a mud stain," put in Marion, "and tried to rub it off for me."
"I see," commented Cleek.. "And so you never told your uncle about the 'golden rain,' then?"
"No; certainly not. How the secret could ever have leaked out is inexplicable. I told only Hugh about the laboratory because I have had such bad headaches, which came from closeness of the atmosphere. It upset him, though, when he heard of it."
"Who is Hugh?" inquired Cleek, softly drawing the fringes of the tablecloth through his fingers.
Marion's fair face flushed. "Mr. Eastwicke, my fiancé," she answered in her simple, straightforward fashion.
"And a splendid fellow, too!" Vernon put in enthusiastically. "He's my senior at Prester's, you know, and we've been chums ever since I went to the office. He'll be here, too, presently; Saturday afternoon he's always with us."
"I see," said Cleek. "Well, Miss Carsholt, perhaps you'll be so kind as to tell me the events of the last day; it was on Thursday when all this happened, was it not? What time did you arrive?"
"Nine thirty, as usual," replied Marion, "and I brought the key from the Chief. You see, I was allowed a key for the laboratory during the day, as the door was locked every time either the professor or I went in and out. At night time the key was taken back to the Chief and the housekeeper had to search me to see that there were no notes or carbon copies made of the accounts and formulas of the daily experiments. That's what makes it still more puzzling. Mr. Wharnecliffe would never have committed suicide; I feel sure of that. Besides, why should he? And as for murder, what possible motive is there? Whatever he meant by those words in his notebook I can't conceive. He had seemed so pleased with me, and I had brought him that very book myself only that morning. You see, we had quite finished on the preceding night, and I had typed out everything. He had had a whim, however, to copy the particulars himself; that was why I brought him the new book. After making some final tests, he sat down to write, and told me I might take an hour longer for lunch."
"What time did you go?" said Cleek, rubbing his hands together and watching her face with keen eyes.
"It was exactly one o'clock. Big Ben had just struck the hour. I got ready, and at the door I looked back and told the professor I was going. Both the guard outside and myself heard his answer: 'Be as long as you like, Miss Carsholt; our work is finished.' And then he got up and locked the door behind me. That was the last I ever saw or heard of one of the cleverest, kindest men that ever lived." She paused and drew a deep breath; the tears were chasing each other down her cheeks. Then she went on:
"Well, I met Vernon and Hugh at one of the restaurants and we had lunch together; then Hugh rushed off to the office, leaving me with Vernon. I did not hurry back; in fact, it was nearly two when I did return. Then to my horror I found I had lost the key to the laboratory."
"Hallo! What's that?" said Cleek. "Lost the key? That was rather careless of you, surely?"
"Yes," she acknowledged in a shamefaced way. "I thought I had placed it in my handbag as usual, but I couldn't have done so, because when we couldn't get any answer and the door was broken in, I found it lying by my chair. It must have dropped out of the bag without my hearing it fall. Of course, I handed the key to the Chief, and then—" She covered her face with her hands and fell to sobbing softly.
Cleek pinched up his chin, and stared at her reflectively, while the Superintendent fixed his gaze on the smoky ceiling, feeling more than a little awkward and extremely sorry for the poor girl.
Suddenly the door swung inward; a sweet-faced, benevolent-looking old gentleman entered the room; and it did not need Vernon's affectionate "Uncle George!" to tell them who he was. His face was alight with sympathy as he took in the scene. He crossed quickly over to the sobbing girl and knelt down beside her, petting and soothing her like a child.
Cleek stuck in his eyeglass, and when the introductions had been made, leaned over confidently.
"I say," said he, "what do you say to a smoke outside, Mr. Carsholt? Miss Marion'll be better alone—eh, what? Just a friendly cigar."
"I don't smoke, sir," said the old man rather stiffly, and turned back to his niece, who was now drying her eyes.
"Please do forgive me, Mr. Narkom," she said. "Don't go away. I will come down again in a minute." She opened the door, passed through it, and went swiftly from the room.
"My poor, dear girl!" said the old man as the door closed behind her, his kindly old voice choking over the utterance. "Mr. Narkom, I'll give every penny I possess to see her righted again! I believe it's only a mare's nest, just an excuse to shield a sudden death of an inventor who worked too hard."
"Between you and me, Mr. Carsholt, as men of the world," said Cleek, tapping a forefinger on the old man's arm, "I believe you're right. I daresay they'll find that the old gentleman died of some obscure kind of heart disease."
"Yes, indeed," struck in Vernon from his position. "That's what Hugh said. Oh, and here he comes. I'll let him in." He flung himself out of the room, and the eyes of the elder men met in mutual appreciation of the enthusiasm of youth.
Cleek turned to the white-haired old man. "Mr. Carsholt, what sort of a man is this Mr. Eastwicke?"
The other's face paled a little and he looked piteously at his questioner. "Why do you ask? He is a pleasant young man, and Marion loves him; so what else is there to say?"
"Love is blind sometimes," put in Cleek with a one-sided smile. "What does he take an interest in besides his work? Tell me a man's hobbies, you know, and I'll tell you his character."
Mr. Carsholt paused, and seemed to struggle as with a temptation not to speak.
"Chemistry, I think," he stammered out finally; "that's why he was so interested in Marion's work—after she told him about her position in Professor Wharnecliffe's laboratory."
"Yes," said Cleek, rising to his feet. "I see. That explains it."
But what it explained he did not say, for at that moment Vernon entered, and Cleek and Narkom were speedily introduced to Marion Carsholt's fiance.
Cleek's eyes wandered indifferently over, him; took in the careless, unbrushed coat, the dust on the worn velvet collar and cuffs. His eyes narrowed. Then he turned away.
"Well, my friends," said he serenely, with a little chuckle, "I don't think it's much good wasting your time further. I think myself it's much ado about nothing."
He shook hands genially all round, and was soon once more out on the pavement.
"Well, dear chap, what do you think about it?" asked Mr. Narkom eagerly, as the gate slammed behind them and they were alone once more.
"I think," he said disgustedly, "it's a beastly dirty neighbourhood, and I'm going home to change my shirt. That's what I think, Mr. Narkom. You can go down to the War Office, and I'll join you there later." And without tendering another word of explanation, Cleek went off to pick up Lennard and the limousine somewhere in the neighbourhood of Victoria Station, and to proceed upon his journey alone.
IT was fully an hour afterward that Cleek, even more the supreme "exquisite" than ever, lounged through the swinging doors of the War Office, where Mr. Narkom was waiting patiently to show him the laboratory.
He followed the Superintendent down the steps and along tessellated passages lit by electric light, till they reached one heavy iron door, set in a solid brick wall. The soldier on guard saluted Mr. Narkom and unlocked the door, allowing them to enter. The room was like a long steel tube, without windows or any apertures that might allow the slightest ray of daylight to be seen. The soft effulgence of electric lamps showed the steel-plated walls, which deadened the sound of experimental explosions. The floor was of stone, the furniture of the simplest, composed for the most part of long boards supported on trestles. Chemical apparatus there was in abundance, little trays of various mixtures; and there, surrounded by the materials and objects amongst which he had laboured so earnestly, lay the inventor, sleeping his last, long sleep.
"I can't make it out," whispered Mr. Narkom as the two men stood looking down on the still figure. "I thought it was murder, right enough; but now I think you were right when you said it was heart disease."
"I can't make it out," whispered Mr. Narkom as
the two men stood looking down on the still figure.
Cleek stopped suddenly, drawing in his breath with a curious, startled sound; then he rose again and shook his head.
"The devils!" he muttered. "I might have guessed—"
"Good God, Cleek! Found a clue already? Eh? What devils do you mean? You know something about it?"
"Yes, Mr. Narkom, I'm afraid I do. It's murder right enough." He pulled down the dead man's lower Up Very gently. "Poisoned, for a ducat! And there's only one gang that could have supplied that atrocious stuff. 'Waters of Lethe' it is called, because it brings forgetfulness so quickly and leaves so little trace. The gang are on the warpath once more, and this"—he pointed to the dead man with one accusing finger—"is their work."
"Cinnamon!" gasped Mr. Narkom, clutching convulsively at his pocket handkerchief and mopping his face. "Gaston Merode? The old crowd of Apaches?"
"The very same. The gang have still retained some of his methods and materials. But now on earth they got Wharnecliffe to drink it—" He bent again and examined the dead man's hands intently. Then once more he turned away.
Mr. Narkom was searching the tables diligently for sign of glass or cup, but, save for test tubes and flat chemical dishes, there were no other receptacles to be seen. On the table where the professor had sat writing, the little notebook reposed in all its newness. Cleek stopped short.
"An idiot! a blithering idiot I am!" he exclaimed sharply, swinging round with the curious, little one-sided smile looping up his mouth. "I remember a headache cure I promised Miss Carsholt. I'm off to South Belgravia, Mr. Narkom, before I forget it. Beastly things, headaches!" And before the astonished Superintendent could utter a word of protest Cleek had vanished. Springing into a passing taxi, he was soon standing in the awe-inspiring "best drawing-room" of 19 Kesteven Terrace, South Belgravia, for the second time that day.
Miss Carsholt, hearing the sound of his footsteps in the hall, came hurrying downstairs, followed by her uncle.
"Oh, Lieutenant Deland!" she cried excitedly, clasping her hands in her emotion. "Have you discovered anything?"
Cleek nodded.
"Yes, Miss Carsholt. I've just remembered the name of that headache stuff: 'pyerine,' Finest stuff in the world, don'tcherknow. Can't think why I forgot it this morning; only get it at one place. I'll write it down for you."
The girl sank down with a little cry of disappointment.
"Oh!" she said, a trifle bitterly. "I thought you had something important to tell me. What does it matter about the headaches! Both Vernon and I suffer from them; don't we, Uncle George?"
"Indeed you do, my dear," said Mr. Carsholt. "It's very good of you to have rushed back like that, Lieutenant; but I don't think it's so important—"
"Headaches are beastly things," persisted Cleek. "I'll write the name of the cure down for you, if you'll give me a piece of paper."
Seeing that there was no other way of getting rid of him, Miss Carsholt picked up a handbag which lay on the chair, and took out a notebook and pencil.
Cleek's eyes brightened as he looked at it.
"Splendid!" he murmured. "Nothing like a good notebook, and this—" he stopped short—"this is such a ripping paper to write on."
"Yes," threw in Miss Carsholt, nodding her head. "The professor said the same. Uncle George gave them to me, didn't you, dear? I gave one to the professor, and kept this for myself."
"I picked them up cheap," said the old man.
"A regular bargain," agreed Cleek. "I say, Miss Carsholt, I'd like this."
"Why, of course."
"Thanks awfully," said Cleek. "And, in return, I'll give you some good news, Miss Marion. I ought to have told you first, but I was so excited over the pyerine and the address."
"Oh, what—what is it?" she cried.
"Why," said he cheerily, "it's just as I told you. The doctors have decided that it was heart disease, and it seems there was a flaw in the 'golden rain,' or whatever you call it, and the professor must have discovered it. Anyhow, you're to go back to the office to-morrow and re-copy the formula. The official letter will come by Monday morning. So make your mind easy. Good-bye, good people." Then with a genial little nod to them all, he was gone, clattering down the stairs like a schoolboy, a strange look upon his face and a strange new light in his eyes.
IT was a very homely little gathering on which Cleek and Mr. Narkom made their unceremonious entrance about seven o'clock on Monday evening. Vernon and Eastwicke had evidently come in themselves, for the latter was in the act of removing his gloves, while Marion lay sleeping on the couch, and Mr. Carsholt sat near her, a book in his hand.
"Hallo!" said both young men together, though in a whispered undertone. "You must have been right behind us. We have only just come in, and found Marion asleep on the couch."
Mr. Carsholt held up a silencing hand.
"Hush!" said he. "Don't wake the dear girl, if you can help it, Mr. Narkom. She is tired out after her day's work."
"I dare say," said Cleek, speaking in loud, incisive tones; "but duty is duty, Mr. Carsholt, and I'm sorry to say a great mistake has been made." He lurched up against the couch, but it did not wake the sleeping girl. "Yes, Mr. Carsholt, I am sorry to have to break the news to you, but the murderer of Professor Wharnecliffe is in this room, and we have come to arrest him."
"What in the world are you saying?" began Mr. Carsholt. He looked at the faces of the two men with fear-widened eyes; his lips quivered pathetically. Vernon remained absolutely still, but Hugh Eastwicke gave vent to a little cry, and moved toward the door.
"No, you don't, my friend," said Cleek, stepping up to him and stamping his foot upon the floor. "Nobody leaves this room, Mr. Eastwicke, nobody at all."
"What do you mean! What do you dare to imply?" Eastwicke's face was deathly white.
"I mean this." Cleek wheeled round as the door opened, and Hammond and Petrie, who had been waiting outside, appeared. "The game is up, Rossillon, or Carsholt, or whatever you claim your dashed name to be at the moment." He sprang forward suddenly, flinging himself upon the white-haired figure of the old man. "Quick, boys! Get him before he slips out! This way! This way!"
But the couch with its sleeping figure hindered them. Hammond and Petrie blundered by it—too late, too late.
Like a flash Carsholt's hand whipped out and up; there was the glint of steel, the sharp twanging of a bullet piercing the air in its rapid flight, the smell of smoke and powder, and Cleek fell back against the table with a little gurgling sound, as though he were laughing and sobbing in the same breath, and slipped down upon the floor beside it.
Instantly there was pandemonium. The five men sprang upon the Frenchman, who stood looking at them with triumphant eyes.
"Do what you like to me, canaille!" he cried excitedly, waving one hand in the air. "I have killed the great Cleek; I have had my revenge, and the Cracksman has vanished forever. Moreover, I know the formula. If I cannot now sell it I may at least shout it to the world in court."
Mr. Narkom struck at him with his clenched fist. The tears were running down his face, so that he could barely see. Then he ran to Cleek.
"Cleek, dear chap, dear old pal, wake up, wake up!" he said. "You're not killed, are you?"
"Not quite, dear chap; but the breath's knocked out of me for a bit," broke in Cleek's laughing voice. "It's as well I changed my shirt, though."
He got slowly to his feet and flung wide his coat and waistcoat, revealing to the astonished eyes of the little group in the room a shirt made completely of chain armour.
Mr. Narkom swallowed something in the back of his throat. He blundered forward and seized Cleek's hand, wringing it in both his own.
"Thank God! Thank God!" he said fervently, pump-handling Cleek for all he was worth. "Once before I had such a shock as this, and it was enough for a lifetime. Good heavens! man—"
"Don't please, Mr. Narkom; don't, old friend," broke in Cleek's voice, a trifle shakily. "You'll have me blubbering like a baby in a minute, and this is no time for sentiment. How did I know it was Rossillon? I thought I recognized him from the first; but I wasn't absolutely certain until he said he didn't smoke, and I noticed his fingers were stained with some sort of acid. And those headaches of Miss Marion's, too."
"Good heavens!" It was Vernon's voice which broke in excitedly. "I had forgotten her. To think that she's slept through all this din!"
Hugh Eastwicke rushed over to the couch where she lay, but Cleek waved him back.
"One minute, Mr. Eastwicke. Be careful; she is in no ordinary sleep, but in a hypnotic trance, worked by this devil here." He bent down and whipped off the white wig, revealing a sleek, close-cropped, bullet head, the skull of the famous Apache criminal who for so long had sought Cleek's life in return for Cleek's merciless pursuit of the Apaches in England.
Cleek smiled gently.
"What knowledge he has gained through hypnotizing Miss Marion will be of no service to him. The stuff was worthless absolutely, because one of the materials with which it was made had been taken from the wrong tray. There had been a mistake, and that is what the professor tried to write before he was poisoned by means of that devil's notebook."
"Mr. Cleek!"
"It's true, my friend—absolutely true." He turned to Rossillon, who glared back at him with angry eyes. "All your information that you got by hypnotizing Miss Marion every night is useless, Rossillon. I suppose you thought you had it all and that you were about to complete your sale of the secret, but you see that's all over, too. Sooner than let the professor make another copy of the formula, you sent him that notebook, every leaf of which was impregnated with the cursed powder. That was why I rushed off." He turned to Mr. Narkom and laid a hand upon his arm. "Directly I saw the clean ball of the thumb I knew what had happened. The professor had been using the book, and in turning over the leaves wet his thumb, so that they should not stick to it, and so carried the poison to his mouth. I was afraid, however, that, having killed off one victim, Rossillon would next kill Miss Marion. As it was, I got away the other notebook just in time."
He turned again to the Apache masquerading as Carsholt.
"That is why you hypnotized her to-night, I suppose? But Vernon disturbed you. Come; reverse the passes, and restore her to her natural self. I— bid—you—to—release—her!" he added incisively.
The great criminal's eyes gleamed with fury, but, seeing the futility of disobedience, he stretched out his hands mechanically, waved them backward and forward before the girl's face, and muttered something under his breath. She stirred and sat up, and Cleek, taking his eyes at last from Rossillon's, gave vent to a little sigh of genuine relief.
Instantly there was a scuffle of footsteps, the flash of a man's body leaping across the room toward the unguarded doorway and the safety that lay beyond, the clatter of hurrying feet, the harsh shouting of voices, and the rattle of handcuffs as they snapped about the Apache's wrists.
"Played, my lads, played!" said Cleek, clapping his hands and giving vent to a quick, triumphant little laugh. "The rat is caught at last, and caught in his own trap. Off with him, Petrie; off with him, both of you—quick, before Miss Carsholt sees who it is! What's that, Miss Marion? Been asleep, eh? Well, well, we've wakened you up with our talking. Everything's all right, everything's settled and finished, and your name is as clean and free from stain as yourself. Mr. Eastwicke"—he beckoned to the enraptured lover—"I've something to say to you." He dropped his voice, so that only he could hear. "She must never know the truth," he said softly. "It would kill her. Make any excuse you like for her uncle's disappearance, but never let her know how nearly she betrayed her country into the hands of another, or how she was the innocent means of killing the greatest inventor of the world. Mr. Eastwicke, my deepest congratulations. Love Miss Carsholt; cherish her, for a good woman's heart is a very jewel from Heaven."
He clicked his heels together and bent his head. Then, sharply, stiffly, he swung round and went out of the door, passing from it to the stairs beyond, and out into the star-dusk, to the sweet-scented velvet darkness, and into the warm sweetness of the summer's night.
THE incident gave Cleek much food for thought. It showed him perhaps even more plainly how keenly Maurevania was striving to free herself from the yoke of King Ulric and his faction. This "golden rain," the priceless explosive, a few ounces of which would have served to destroy the whole tiny kingdom, would have been theirs, had it not been for that failure.
He had an intuitive idea, that for the immediate present neither he nor Ailsa Lorne would be interfered with. There were evidently even more important matters in the wind. If he could but find out whether Irma was going to remain in England; a frown crossed his face, for it was Irma that he dreaded mainly, rather than Margot and her gang, more desperate though they might be. Still, fear of the police kept a slight check on their actions, and then again, there was also a question of money; not even for revenge on the Cracksman would they spend the money as Count Irma would and could.
Almost unconsciously, his footsteps took him to the Ritz Hotel, where he knew Count Irma to have his lodgings, and fortune favoured him, for, descending the steps, his coat collar buttoned high up round his throat, his hat pulled down low, was Count Irma himself, and Cleek, doubling himself back in the shadow of the stone portals, followed in pursuit. That the Count was anxious not to be followed was very evident, for several times he stopped short, and, turning from side to side, looked furtively at the homeward-bound throngs of passengers. Across Piccadilly he went, up Shaftesbury Avenue, until he reached the most crowded part of Soho, surely a strange place for a gentleman to go thus unattended and unprotected. Cleek, following, inwardly cursed his luck at not being able to disguise himself better. Down a narrow courtyard, squalid and filthy, Count Irma stopped and, peering in at each door, knocked at last at the third from the end. It was opened by a young French boy, obviously an Apache. Cleek's heart gave a leap and missed two beats; he knew now who it was that Count Irma had thus ventured to visit in such grimy surroundings. No one less than Margot herself. What fresh evil were these two planning? What was to be their next step? The door shut to with a bang, and the sound of heavy bolts drawn across told the huddled-up watcher that entry by that means was impossible. Through an upstairs window floated a shrill laugh that brought a light of recognition to Cleek's face. It was Margot herself. His eyes turned upward. If only he could climb up to that window! But there was not a single foothold. To his surprise, a second later came the sound of the bolts being withdrawn, and Count Irma reappeared, with Margot close on his heels? That she was in a bad temper was self-evident, and a look of amusement looped up Cleek's mouth as he recalled the old days when he himself had incurred her capricious tempers. Now another fool had his feet in the trap.
"You might just as well have brought it with you," he heard her remark as he slipped along, a shadow amongst other shadows, at their back.
"Not so foolish, ma belle," was the grim reply. "I already have paid out too much for no results. Get the man alone; I will see to him when I return. But the woman—she must be put out of the way."
Margot laughed. The sound made Cleek's blood run cold.
"Trust her to me, mon ami. As long as she is over here, she cannot escape the clutches of my people. Paris, alas! is forbidden ground. You understand, monsieur, the police; but they have short memories, and life is long. And you, monsieur, what do you do?"
"I leave London to-night. I must catch the boat express, so, mademoiselle, if you want your cheque, we will hurry."
By this time they were out in the open thoroughfare of Shaftesbury Avenue, and the Count hailed a taxi.
Cleek troubled no further; he was too thankful with the results of his espionage. In one short hour Count Irma would be on his way to Calais, thence to set forth for the kingdom for which he had fought so unscrupulously. For the rest, Cleek had already made up his mind. In Paris Ailsa would be safe, for Margot would be unable to get back to her beloved city till some recent misdeed had been allowed to fall into abeyance.
Hardly hesitating a minute, he went direct to the lodging where Ailsa had established herself until they should make their home together. "I can always go to the Baron de Caryorae. They will be glad to see me," she said quietly after he had finished his story. "When shall I go, dear?"
"Now, this very minute," responded Cleek in the sharp staccato of excitement. "Dress as a nursing sister. Dollops shall be on the watch. I want you out of the country immediately. Time is short, Ailsa, and you hold my life's happiness in your hands. If you care for me, dear, you will be very careful, very quick."
She gave him her answer with her lips upon his. Then together they planned for her departure. A hasty telephone message fetched Dollops, and a few words sufficed to put him on guard.
"Lor' lumme, sir, don't you worry. It's not that bit of pink gauze"—his favourite name for Margot—"wot's going to so much as touch our Miss Ailsa, bless her, I can promise yer!" was his hearty response to Cleek's questioning. And it was but a brief hour later, with mixed feelings of relief and loss, that Cleek watched her dear figure borne away in the boat train, to safety; then, turning with a sigh upon his lips, he made his way back; but not for long. London without Ailsa was unendurable. He wanted his roses, his own dear flowers—and hers—in return for the peace and contentment that she had carried away with her.
And so it came about that, Mr. Narkom, seeking him out, as ever upon the Yard's business, made his way down to the little house. It was one of those gorgeous June days, when the countryside was astream with sunshine, and the sky a wonderful turquoise river, in the bowl of which floated a thousand little cotton-wool cloud boats, drifting serenely on into an eternity of sapphirine sea. Even the hedge rows themselves, decked out as they were in all the gay green of summer leaves and summer blossoms, took on that bright vivid crudity of tint that only the sun—Nature's greatest master-hand—knows exactly how to mix.
In the garden of the little house out there where the lazy, sleepy old Thames reaches out a finger to touch the edge of Little Barholm and then runs on a bit into the heart of it, Captain Horatio Burbage leaned on the handle of the spade, with which he was digging around the root of a fine yellow "William Allen Richardson," and passed a hand over his streaming forehead.
"Hot work, eh, Mrs. Condiment?" said he, with a twitch of his head in the direction and a healthy, happy laugh.
"Don't be stayin' out too long in the heat, Capt'n; it's not good for us old 'uns, say I," responded Mrs. Condiment practically. "That rose'll wait until the evening, I'll be bound, and it'll be cooler then."
Then she stopped suddenly, and threw up her hands, giving vent to a little cry of surprise as, down the long white ribbon of a road that stretched away at the bottom of the little wicket gate, a figure slowly wended its way into view. As it came nearer the sun shone upon the red, perspiring face of the Superintendent of Scotland Yard.
"Mr. Narkom, as I'm alive!" ejaculated Mrs. Condiment, running down the garden pathway with a flutter of white apron strings and a flapping of black silk skirts. "Good afternoon, sir. And will you be pleased to come inside, then? The Captain'll be that delighted to see you."
The Captain, or, to give him his proper name, Cleek, reached out a mud-stained hand, and gripped the Superintendent's, at the same time favouring him with a wry smile.
"Well, you old spoil sport," he said with a lurch of the shoulders, "come to hunt me out again, have you? Mrs. Condiment, you might get us a cup of tea, while I have a chat with Mr. Narkom out here in the sunshine. Ah, that's right. Well, what is it this time, old friend? A case, of course."
The Superintendent sank down upon a rustic seat and mopped his streaming forehead with a white silk handkerchief. His face looked troubled, concerned.
"Yes, it is a case, Cleek," he said dejectedly, with a deep-drawn sigh, "and the very devil of a one, too. Boy disappeared; not a trace, not a sign. Absolutely vanished. No clue to be found. No person who saw him after he left for that walk along the seashore. Stepped off the edge of the earth, so to speak, and not even a footprint to show where he did it, either."
"Hello!" said Cleek with a strong rising inflection. "That sounds interesting! Disappearance, eh? How old was the lad, and when did it happen, or how? Or, no; better wait for the details until after that cup of tea Mrs. Condiment's promised us. Then I'll change into a few decent 'duds,' and come along with you. I'll be bound that Lennard and the limousine are dodging somewhere in the background down that road there. Ah! I thought so! Tea ready, Mrs. Condiment? All right. Come along, Mr. Narkom, and have a wee drappie. Just a dash in your 'tay' will pull you together after your long journey, and then we'll hear all about your adventures afterward."
They went inside the little house, and found tea waiting for them in the tiny drawing-room, with Mrs. Condiment's best china in honour of the visitor, Then Cleek turned again to his companion.
"Now," said he with a sigh of resignation, "to return to our muttons. You say it was a disappearance, Mr. Narkom, and that the person in question is a boy? Of what age?"
"Ten. Son of the Luton-Baybers, biggest people in Portreath. Own miles of countryside, rich as Croesus, and as nice a family as you could wish to meet. Mother, father, and the little chap."
Cleek pursed up his lips and gave forth a low whistle of surprise.
"Cornwall, eh? Devil of a journey! And you're expecting me to go there, of course."
"Yes, if you only will, old chap. The case is a sad one. Listen. Last Tuesday week, June the tenth, as you'll remember, by the calendar, little Ronald Luton-Bayber was watching the workmen upon St. Jude's Church, which has been in repair for some time. The church itself is an old ruin of feudal times, a beautiful place, but utterly useless as a place of worship since seventeen-sixty-something, for in that year it was almost totally destroyed by fire. The spire still stands, though, and a goodish part of the actual body of the building itself, but the south nave was entirely destroyed, and the whole place is at present being put into repair by a certain Mr. Joshua Burnaby, a rich, elderly gentleman who has but lately come to live in the neighbourhood, and has already erected a library for the people, and a rather marvellous drinking-fountain in the middle of the village square."
"Hum! Quite an embryo Carnegie," gave back Cleek serenely, as he sipped his tea and fit a cigarette.
"And where, may I ask, did this amiable church-restorer come from in the first instance, eh?"
"Yorkshire. He's a mill owner, or something of the sort, I believe, and the village people literally worship him. That church has been their joy and pride since time began. It's one of the sights of the place, and the statuary, I believe, is considered very beautiful. There are some very fine images in gilt that used to stand in niches some six feet over the church door, and across the front of the building, eight of them, and Mr. Burnaby is having those that have gone to ruin replaced with others as nearly like the originals as possible. But that's not the case, Cleek. As I was saying, young Ronald was walking along the cliff toward the church—"
"So it stands on a cliff, then? That's an interesting situation for a place of worship, isn't it? I don't remember hearing of a church that stood on the edge of a cliff."
"Yes, right on the edge, with nothing in reach of it for a quarter of a mile on either side. The cliff is hardly a proper one, though, being in reality a high edifice of ground, jutting out over the caves where in the olden days the people say the smugglers used to congregate. He was watching the workmen, with his governess, Miss Doritt, when Mr. Burnaby came up and spoke to him. Miss Doritt says he was most kind to the boy, and offered to take him inside to see the interior repairs, if he'd care about it. But the lad was afraid of the darkness, and wouldn't go. So she took him home again. But she impressed on me how perfectly charming the man was, and remarked also that he had the most beautiful eyes she had ever looked into."
"Hum. And is the gentleman a bachelor? If so, he'd better mind his p's and q's, or perhaps I should say, his 'eyes,' where the ladies are concerned, or one will be landing him yet. And who is this Miss Doritt?"
"Daughter of the rector of the village. A slim, sweet-faced girl with reddish hair and blue eyes. Been with the family for three years. Well, to continue: Next day Ronald wandered out by himself, and did not return until almost dark, when the family were distracted with fears for his safety. The coast is lonely and very rugged, and the coastline neither straight nor smooth. There are many pitfalls for unwary feet, and they were afraid the boy had fallen down one of the many crevasses. But he hadn't, for he returned home none the worse for his little walk alone, and full of interest in a certain 'Mr. Andrew' with whom he declared he had had a nice long talk upon the seashore. It seems that the boy had chanced upon the entrance to a cave at the foot of the cliff and after exploring it in a half-timid, half-eager fashion he had turned back and met 'Mr. Andrew' on the sands. And now the strange part of the story comes, Cleek. As it happens, there isn't a person by the name of Andrew in the village. The boy vanished next day, after he had taken another little walk, unknown to his governess, and the last person who spoke to him was an old peasant woman upon the cliff, halfway toward St. Jude's Church, who told him he should not be out alone at such a dangerous place."
"And what answer did the boy make?"
"The woman said that he replied that he wouldn't be alone long, as his friend Mr. Andrew had promised to show him something, but that it was a big secret, and he couldn't tell her."
Mr. Narkom leaned back in his chair, and took a large mouthful of tea. His eager eyes sought Cleek's thoughtful face.
There was silence for some minutes; then:
"Rather careless governess that, to let the child wander alone two days in succession," said he suddenly, with an uplifting of the eyebrows. "I should have thought after the first time that—"
"Mrs. Luton-Bayber had had a slight attack of influenza," interposed Mr. Narkom, "and Miss Doritt had had to nurse her. The parents are literally distracted, Cleek, Mrs. Luton-Bayber sits all day long in his nursery, and can't be moved out of it, and the father, too, has settled into a sort of coma of despair, and doesn't seem to see or know anything. Miss Doritt, too, was almost beside herself with grief when I saw her, and kept saying that it was all her fault that the boy had gone out alone, and that she ought to have been more careful. Mr. Burnaby, I am told, called immediately at the house the day after the disappearance, and offered his services in any way that he could. He even organized a party of his own workmen, to search for the missing child. Every cave on the coast was scoured for him, every inch of the countryside, every crevice, every cranny. But hide nor hair of him there was none. There, that's the case, Cleek. What do you make of it?"
"I'll tell you later, when I've looked into it a bit," responded Cleek, twitching back his head. "Another cup of tea? No? Well, I'll be off and away, and change my clothes, then, for it's a long, long way to Cornwall, and the sooner we're on the scene of the disaster the better for all concerned."
THEY found it "a long way to Cornwall" indeed, but at last even that way was traversed, and they stood at the front door of a big, rambling old country house, low and long, with gabled roof and ivy-covered walls, awaiting admittance to its precincts. That was not long forthcoming, and when Mr. Narkom, with Cleek at his side, passed into the low-ceiled drawing-room, it was nearer luncheon than breakfast, for they had travelled all night in the limousine, and had not even waited to snatch forty winks at the village inn where they stopped for breakfast.
Mr. Luton-Bayber himself ushered them into the room, and then closed the door softly behind him. His face was the face of a man in awful anguish of soul, his eyes looked restless and haggard, and there were deep lines of care about his narrow, close-lipped mouth.
"I don't know how to begin, Mr. Headland," he said listlessly, after Mr. Narkom had performed the necessary introduction, and "Mr. George Headland" stood confessed before them. "It's all been so terrible and unwarranted. The local police could make nothing of it, so I took the matter into my own hands, and sent to Scotland Yard at once. Mr. Narkom here kindly came down by the next train. He has told you all the details, I expect?"
"Most of them, certainly," gave back Mr. Headland in his slow, stupid voice. "No suspicion of foul play, I suppose? Or kidnappers? Was your boy likely to come into any property which might induce some unscrupulous rascal to hold him in ransom? I take it, Mr. Luton-Bayber, that you are a man of means. Pardon the question, but a policeman, you know, has privileges which an ordinary gentleman has not."
"Yes, certainly," responded Mr. Luton-Bayber quietly. "My business is a great one, or was, for I have since sold it for an enormous sum of money, which my only son Ronald would one day inherit. In fact, now, he owned most of the farm lands about here; arable culture, Mr. Headland, was my line, but on a very great scale, and I had theories which fortunately enabled me to 'strike it good,' as our American cousins would say. Ronald was the youngest landowner anywhere around, and the tenants of the different farms that belonged to the little chap took a great delight in dubbing him 'the little Squire,' and always sent their rents in to him. It delighted him a good deal. My nephew, young Geoffrey Fawcett, only son of my eldest brother, is next of kin. He is a fine young fellow, and is staying with us now. High spirited usually, but of late I think something has been preying on his mind, for he has grown morose and silent, and hardly spoke to anybody but little Ronald. Now that the boy has gone, Mr. Headland, he is desolate, as we are; absolutely desolate."
Mr. Luton-Bayber paused a moment and drew a deep breath. His eyes searched Cleek's face for any sign, any clue. But if there were any, Cleek did not show it.
"Hum!" said he slowly, pinching up his chin between a thumb and forefinger. "I should like to see this new heir very much indeed. You don't, of course, connect him in any way with the disappearance, I suppose? Wasn't in any money difficulties or anything of that sort?"
"Good God, no. Not that I know of. The idea has never entered my head. No, certainly not. Geoffrey has nothing whatever to do with the case; I can swear to that. Why, he simply idolizes Ronald, and Miss Doritt."
"I take it that she was the lady who was with the boy on his last walk in company with some one else, was she not? Could she be called? I should like to hear her account of the story from her own lips. You never can tell, you know, as the small boy said when he broke the barometer, just exactly what kind of weather is likely to follow after the sunniest day. Thanks very much. Ah, and this is little Ronald's governess, is it? How d'you do, Miss Doritt? I understand from Mr. Luton-Bayber here that you were the last person to accompany the boy upon any walk which he did not take alone. I am right, am I not?"
Miss Doritt bowed her head.
"Yes, Mr. Headland," she said unevenly, drawing in sharp breaths between each word, and Cleek noticed that her eyes were extraordinarily reddened as with much weeping. "Ronald and I went for our little walk down to St. Jude's Church to watch the rebuilding. It was a favourite pastime of his, and he never grew tired of watching the men at work on that huge scaffolding across the face of the church, pasting the new stone bricks with mortar and setting them in their places. The golden statues particularly took his fancy. His 'yellow boys' he called them, and he knew every one of them by some pet name or other."
"Just so. And did you meet any one upon that walk, Miss Doritt?"
"Yes—Mr. Burnaby. It is he, you know, who is doing the restoration work, and a kinder gentleman it would be difficult to imagine."
"Made a good impression, eh?" Cleek's eyes twinkled for a moment.
"He was very courteous, and very much of a gentleman," she gave back in some confusion. "He spoke kindly to Ronald, and asked him if he would like to go inside. But the church is gloomy and full of shadows and Ronald was always afraid of the dark, so he refused to go. A short time after that, we returned home. That is all I can tell you, Mr. Headland, quite all."
Cleek's eyes sought her face with a sort of mute inquiry in them that made the colour rush to her cheeks.
"Sure that's all, Miss Doritt? Every bit?" he asked quietly. "Just think again. It's my business, you know, to read people's faces, and I can read yours. That's not 'quite all,' is it?"
She flushed, again and shifted her eyes to Mr. Luton-Bayber's face. Then they came back to Cleek's.
"Well," she stammered at last, "there—there's really nothing more of consequence, Mr. Headland, only the curse of an old woman whom the villagers call a witch."
Cleek twitched back his head like a terrier scenting a rat.
"Hello!" he rapped out sharply. "What's that? An old woman's curse, eh? Sometimes curses cover up—other things. I should like to hear exactly what the curse was, Miss Doritt, if you don't mind."
She hesitated a minute, and looked back again at Mr. Luton-Bayber.
"We were passing her cottage in the village one day, and she was sitting at the door with an old clay pipe in her mouth. It made Ronald laugh, and foolishly, and also very impolitely, he called out to her, 'Old clay pipe! Old clay pipe!' The name so infuriated Old Jeanie, as she is called, Mr. Headland, that she picked up the pipe and threw it after him, screaming a curse meanwhile about his dying 'in the sunshine when the first quarter of the moon was up.'"
Mr. Luton-Bayber glanced up with sharp eyes into Miss Doritt's face.
"I have never heard that story," he said quickly, with sudden suspicion. Miss Doritt flushed.
"I know. Because I have told it to no one. It was only an old woman's stupidity, and Mrs. Luton-Bayber is so superstitious that I thought it best not to tell her. And then the thing quite passed from my mind. But Ronald and I never went that way again."
"Quite so. And the first quarter of the moon was up some few days ago, wasn't it? Curious coincidence, but one can hardly set much store by it. That's all, I think, Miss Doritt. And now, sir, if I might see a portrait of the boy?"
A large coloured photograph, heavily framed, hung upon the opposite wall, and Mr. Luton-Bayber pointed to it.
"There he is," he said, with a world of sadness in his deep voice. "There's my bonny boy, Mr. Headland. A handsome lad, but very small for his age."
"Yes, certainly doesn't look a big child. What was his height?"
"Something more than three feet. And he was thin, too. Small bones."
Cleek looked long into the pictured face, with its yellow curls and large, wide-open blue eyes. The child was certainly handsome; the photograph showed that, but he was remarkably undersized for a boy of ten years, and he was, as his father had said, thin almost to leanness.
"Well, I certainly can't find anything here," said Cleek, after a quick look round the room and a glance at the stricken father whose gaze dwelt upon the portrait of the boy he had lost. "If I might go up to his nursery, sir? Thanks. No, don't bother to come. Up on the right-hand side of the stairs, you say? Very well. I won't make any mistake. Coming along, Mr. Narkom? Very good."
The two men passed out of the room, and up the passage toward the stairway.
"Any ideas, old chap?" whispered the Superintendent eagerly as he trudged up in the wake of his famous ally. Cleek looked back over his shoulder.
"Yes. A few. First, why does Miss Doritt paint her eyes red in that rather overdone manner? I should think any one but a rank fool would be able to discern that 'unnatural grief.' And likewise, why had she kept the story of the curse so carefully to herself? No one with a single grain of common sense would believe that, unless the whole story were a hoax and a blind. Ah, well!" He stopped on the top step and smiled down at the Superintendent puffing and blowing in his wake. "It's a sure thing, dear friend, that you must not add any more to your waistband, or you'll be having to carry escalator apparatuses about with you with which to climb stairs. But there's something very 'rotten in the state of Denmark' which I'm going to put my finger on, and put it there, too, in a brace of shakes."
They reached the nursery, and left it, after having glanced in through the half-open door to where the sound of a woman's sobbing came to them through the silence and sent the dagger of sympathy piercing their two hearts.
They descended the stairs in silence, and passed on down the long, shallow hall toward the drawing-room door, where the sound of men's voices came to them. There were two newcomers there: one was a short, thick-set man with graying hair and heavy eyebrows that were like miniature moustaches, and truly the kindest blue eyes that ever looked out of the mirror of a human face.
"Gad! but there's a sunny temper, or I'm a Dutchman," commented Cleek as they passed into the room. "Looks like the sort of person who was made for reliability, a human prop for other and weaker men to lean against. Mr. Burnaby, I take it. Pleased to meet you, sir. Headland's the name—George Headland of Scotland Yard. Mr. Luton-Bayber called us in on the case to investigate."
"Glad to make your acquaintance," responded Mr. Joshua Burnaby with a little formal, old-fashioned bow and a smile that showed two rows of extremely white teeth. "This is the most awful tragedy that I have come upon in all my travels. Terrible, sir, terrible! My poor friend here—what it must mean to him to lose his only son!"
Cleek felt an instinctive liking for the man. Then he turned toward the other newcomer, and gave him a quick glance from under his narrowed eyelids. "A fine young fellow," Mr. Luton-Bayber had called him, but hardly "a fine young fellow" did he appear. For, in the first place, he had that particular kind of eyes which are set rather too close together over the bridge of a thin, high nose; his brow was long and rather forbidding, and his mouth a narrow thread of scarlet set into the mask of his lean face. One shoulder drooped lower than the other, and he kept continually shifting his feet and running a finger under the edge of his collar as though he were a very nervous man indeed.
"Either a guilty conscience, or a fool," Cleek mentally designated him as he shook hands with the gentleman, and put a question or two to him in a rather abrupt voice. "Haven't quite made up my mind which." Aloud he remarked:
"And where were you at the time of the boy's disappearance, if I may inquire? Were you in this house, or not?"
The young man shifted his feet uneasily. When he spoke there was a catch in his voice, as though he were making up his mind whether to speak or not.
"No," said he finally, "I was not here. F-fact is, Mr. Headland, I was seeing a man in Redruth, which is close by here, on—on business."
"I see. And business of a very personal and private character, I take it, from your tone?"
"Yes. Entirely personal and private."
"Just so. Well, Mr. Luton-Bayber, there is nothing to be discovered here, I'm afraid. And before I go up to Truro to look up some little matters in connection with the case, I'd like to take a stroll in the village, if I may. Never been to Cornwall in my life, and haven't the faintest idea what it is like. If some one will be so kind as to accompany me—"
Some one was, after Mr. Luton-Bayber had shown some disgust and amazement at the altogether casual manner in which "Mr. George Headland" had dismissed the affair for the moment; and that some one was no less a personage than Mr. Joshua Burnaby. He laid a hand upon Cleek's arm, and smiled his fresh, sudden smile.
"Come along with me," he said cheerily. "I'll take you along and show you our church, and what my men are doing to it. It'll interest you, if you've any eye for beauty of architecture. You coming along, too, Mr. Fawcett? Oh, very well, then; perhaps Mr. Narkom will accompany us as well. Good-bye for the present, Mr. Luton-Bayber, and for God's sake, don't look so troubled and anxious. We'll find your boy, I promise you!"
Then they passed out of the room, and left the stricken man alone. The road to the church led them along the cliff's edge by a narrow zigzag path worn through the grassy slope by continual travel. The cliff itself shelved over some fifteen or twenty feet above the rocky beach, where a strip of sand, white and loose as dry salt, showed them that the water never reached quite so far up upon this particular portion of the shore. Fifteen minutes' walk brought them in sight of the building, a handsome pile of nuns set upon the cliff like the nest of some solitary eagle, with neither sight nor sign of any habitation for some distance round. In the afternoon sunlight Cleek could see the golden statues upon its front glistening like great nuggets, and the scaffolding about it was alive with little moving spots that were the workmen upon their task.
"It's a fine piece of restoration," said he, with a deep-drawn breath of admiration as they walked up the broad gravelled pathway. "That's what I call real philanthropy, Mr. Burnaby, returning to a nation one of its own treasures of the past. They're doing some splendid work these men of yours, with that frontal. Hardly tell it from the original."
Mr. Burnaby fairly beamed with delight. He slid his hand through Cleek's arm and drew him forward for a closer inspection. One of the men was standing by the great open doorway, with a recumbent golden figure lying ready to be hoisted to its niche over the centre of the door, and Cleek stepped farther forward to inspect it. Then he bent down suddenly and picked something out of the gravel and put it into his pocket with a smile of satisfaction.
"Bit of my favourite lichen," said he, answering Mr.. Burnaby's inquiring look. "Grows on old places like this, and I'm a fair fool over botany. Keep specimens and all that. What are the statues made of, if I may ask? Marble or stone, or what? They're very fine."
Mr. Burnaby leaned over and whispered something in his ear.
"Plaster," he said with a little knowing smile. "Nothing more nor less than common plaster. That was a little idea of my own. We took the original statues, which were mutilated and broken in parts, and poured the stuff over them. When it hardened it left a perfect model, and the finishing touches were put on afterward, and the gilding done. Smart, wasn't it?"
"Very," gave back Cleek enthusiastically. Then the others came up, and the conversation became general. Mr. Narkom showed an Englishman's delight in the restoration process and admired everything in his voluble way. Then he called Mr. Burnaby to come over and introduce him to the foreman of this wonderful work, and Cleek and young Fawcett stood alone. Suddenly Cleek dived again, picked up something, sniffed at it for a few moments, and put that, too, in his pocket.
"Bit of a collector," he explained to the interested young man. "Always poking my nose around somewhere to see what I can find. Policeman's business as well, you know, Mr. Fawcett, and I'm no sluggard at the task. They're beckoning us; we'd better go in."
He followed in the wake of the two men, and they entered the church together. It was very beautiful in the interior, and now that the roof had been built over the main body, one noticed that the height was enormous. At the high altar they paused to admire the carving of the wood of which it was wrought, and Cleek pointed to a little door, also carved, which lay at the back of it, and seemed to point to some secret hiding-place.
"Where does that lead to?" he said in his interested manner. "That door—I presume it is a door, though I know they were in the habit of carving panels behind the altar-pieces in the good old days—looks a fine bit of work."
"Yes," assented Mr. Burnaby, "it is a fine bit of work, I believe. They say that some secret cupboard lies behind it; I've tried many times to wrench it open, but it's too much for my poor strength, and the years have swollen the wood so that it will not budge."
"I see. Well, I suppose we'd better be getting on now. It's nearly tea time, and I'm as hungry as a hunter. And I promised Miss Doritt I'd show her the way to plant those bulbs she was so interested in." Cleek noticed the quick, sharp look of jealousy that Mr. Fawcett threw at him, and drew his own conclusions. So that was the way the land lay, was it? Hum! A match, most possibly. But how could a girl like that Miss Doritt—Then suddenly he twitched back his head and gave a little noiseless laugh. "Birds of a feather!" and all the rest of it. Then they passed out of the church into the afternoon sunlight. A workman was hoisting the gold figure up in his arms with a good deal of care, and Cleek stepped forward instantly.
"Here," said he, "let's lend a hand. Bit difficult, eh? Wait a moment; I'll hold it for you until you get that ladder straight. Steady, now! Fine representation, Mr. Burnaby. Even my somewhat limited teaching will tell me that it's supposed to be the Infant Samuel, eh? Yes? I thought so. There, that's it. Got him fast, have you? That's all right. Good afternoon."
Then he spun upon his heel and rejoined the group that was waiting for him at the bottom of the wide drive, and together they walked back along the cliff to the Manse and the stricken parents of the lost child.
Mr. Burnaby left them at the door, and young Fawcett went back with him, as he wanted some stamps in the village; so Cleek and Mr. Narkom walked into the drawing-room together. Mr. Luton-Bayber was standing at the window, looking out. He turned at the sound of their footsteps and approached them; his face was lined and furrowed with the sorrow that was eating its way into his soul.
"Good afternoon," he said in a dull, lifeless voice. "I hope you've enjoyed your walk, gentlemen. I can hardly expect you to have discovered any clue to my poor boy's whereabouts. That would be asking too much."
"But not more than I am willing to give," replied Cleek, the queer little one-sided smile travelling up his cheek. "I can say nothing at the present, Mr. Luton-Bayber, but if you will meet me here in this drawing-room to-morrow morning at eleven, I may have something that will throw some light upon the case. No; I tell you I can say nothing as yet; I can give no hope. The night will show. But for the present, I am going down to the village to interview Old Jeanie and see if she has anything to tell me. And, by the way, if you can find out exactly what kind of business detained your nephew in Redruth on the afternoon of June the eleventh, I'd be much obliged. Good-bye, for the present—and you might get him to be with you in the morning when I return; also Miss Doritt. That's all, I think. Good-day."
Then he spun on his heel and, beckoning Mr. Narkom, left the astonished gentleman staring after his retreating figure, a newly-aroused suspicion growing in his mind, and incredulity marked plainly upon his countenance.
AT eleven the next morning, Cleek had said, but it was nearly a quarter to twelve when he at last made his appearance, followed by a white-faced, excited Superintendent, and stepped into the old-fashioned drawing-room where already Mr. Luton-Bayber was seated, with young Fawcett leaning against the mantelpiece, looking down into Miss Doritt's upturned face, while Mr. Burnaby made a fourth to the little group.
"Thought I'd just look in on you and see if there was any news," Mr. Burnaby said, as he greeted Cleek with outstretched hand, a genuine welcome shining in his eyes. "Got to get off to Truro by the twelve-thirty train, to see about some more 'church' stuff that hasn't arrived, and for which the men are waiting. Can't get on, poor beggars. Tell us what you know, Mr. Headland, for pity's sake. I'll wager none of us have slept a wink for anxiety. Have you found poor Ronald yet?" Cleek shook his head.
"No," he said gravely, "but I've got some news of him, which is something. Will you all put on your hats and walk down with me toward the cliff? Old Jeanie is to meet us there at one, and there is a little matter with regard to a certain gentleman's business upon the afternoon of June the eleventh that wants looking into. You will? Ah, I'm glad. Can I fetch your hat for you, Miss Doritt? I saw it hanging in the hall. Been out for an early walk, haven't you? I thought I saw you at eight this morning by the cliff, or perhaps I was mistaken. Ready? Very well, then, we'll be moving on, for time is short, and I've got to get back to London this afternoon by the five o'clock train."
Miss Doritt's pretty pale face went a sort of brick-red at Cleek's allusion to that "early walk," and at the mention of that "certain gentleman's business on June the eleventh" all eyes instinctively turned toward young Fawcett, until he was fairly beside himself with that miserable self-consciousness that people of his temperament show under such circumstances. A move was made toward the front door and the whole party set forth along the cliff's edge toward the church, where Old Jeanie had promised to meet Cleek.
Her cottage was the nearest place approaching it, and as she was supposed to be on the other side of ninety, walking was hardly one of her pastimes. "But she wouldn't hear of my bringing you all down to her house," he said, in reply to Mr. Luton-Bayber's inquiry. "She persisted that she would rather meet us here by the church; she didn't want her house 'overrun with the pack of 'em' was the unflattering way she expressed it. Ah, and here we are, with half an hour to wait. Might show us round, Mr. Burnaby, won't you? I could see this place over and over again without getting tired."
Mr. Burnaby drew out his watch and looked at it.
"Haven't got much time," he said with a shake of the head, "but I'd be glad to show you what I can." Then he made a move toward Cleek and whispered something in his ear, giving a guarded look back to where young Fawcett was chatting with Miss Doritt, the morning sunlight streaming down upon his pale face and narrow, close-set eyes. Cleek nodded significantly.
"Yes," said he in an undertone, and then: "Not a word, mind you. But this morning, Old Jeanie—she saw him with the boy—yes—hush! he's coming. Might take us inside, Mr. Burnaby. I'll be bound that the rest of the party haven't seen the place as closely as I have."
The rest of the party hadn't, and so Mr. Burnaby led the way inside, and Cleek, coming last, jostled against young Fawcett's figure and set the great door swinging upon its hinges with a clang.
"Clumsy fool!" he ejaculated as they all turned their heads at the sound. "Banged it with my elbow. Hope I didn't hurt you, Mr. Fawcett? So careless." He slipped a hand out and quietly turned the key in the door, and put it into his pocket. Then the party advanced toward the altar and stood before it admiring the carving of its frontal piece.
"That bit of work at the back is what gets me," commented Cleek as they moved in a body toward it, Mr. Narkom at his left side and Mr. Burnaby at his right, with Luton-Bayber, Miss Doritt, and young Fawcett bringing up the rear. "Finest thing in the place, to my thinking. No, no, Mr. Fawcett, come back here; I've something particular I want to say to you, and I don't want you wandering off while I'm saying it. About that little business on the eleventh."
He wheeled suddenly upon his heel and bent his eyes upon young Fawcett's startled, dough-white face. There was a little flutter in the group, Mr. Luton-Bayber stepped forward as if to speak, Mr. Burnaby settled his mouth into a line which said plainly, "I told you so!" and Miss Doritt gave out a hasty, terrified scream.
"Thought you'd bluff it out, did you?" threw out Cleek in a voice of thunder as the young man tossed back his head and began stammering explanations as fast as it was possible to conceive them. "But not if I know it. My name's not Cleek if I don't know a criminal when I see one."
"Cleek!" The word came from them in an astonished cry.
The queer, one-sided smile looped up the corner of his mouth and as he had been speaking his fingers had touched a tiny button in the carved panel, and it had slid noiselessly back, to reveal a dark, cavernous opening, down which ran a flight of narrow stone steps.
"Just Cleek of Scotland Yard, gentlemen, at your service," he said serenely. "And in this little matter with Mr. Fawcett here."
Came the sound of a sudden scuttle of footsteps, a quick, hasty exclamation, and then, before you could say "Jack Robinson," Cleek had whirled round upon the swiftly moving figure of Mr. Joshua Burnaby as he was in the act of slipping through the aperture. Catching him by the leg in a little bit of jiu-jitsu that he had learned in those dark days that had gone, Cleek brought him crashing to the floor, where he lay, a squirming, wriggling, screeching thing, with Cleek's hands locked about his throat and Cleek's knee planted firmly upon his chest.
Catching him by the leg in a little bit of
jiu-jitsu Cleek brought him crashing to the floor.
"Got you! Got you, you infernal hell-dog!" rapped out that gentleman sharply, as there came the sound of a sharp click-click and the bracelets glittered upon the prisoner's wrists. "Got you as safe as houses, thank God, before you and your little tribe can go on with your game of cheating the Song of his lawful rights, or of slaughtering any more innocent children just because they happen to have got a peep into the inner workings of your little concern! Mr. Narkom, give those boys a whistle, and we'll have the whole gang in harness in a brace of shakes. That's it, that's it! Here's your man, lads, and take good care that the 'kind' gentleman doesn't slip through your fingers, for he's as slippery as the proverbial eel. Now then, gentlemen, come along."
"Good God!" It was Mr. Luton-Bayber's voice that spoke, Mr. Luton-Bayber's voice filled with an awful anguish, a terrified awakening. "Slaughtered innocent children, you said, Mr. Cleek? What did you mean? Surely not Mr. Burnaby? Surely not he?
"Surely, yes," gave back Cleek softly. "God! but I'd give my soul not to have to break this awful thing to you, sir. That's where the hard part of this kind of game comes in. But it's got to be done, it's got to be done. The lad's—gone, Mr. Luton-Bayber, beyond hurt, beyond harm, and the body is hidden here, in this church, where all eyes can see, but only the chosen few can understand. Steady there, steady! It'll be harder for the wife than for you, you know, but it's a man's part to carry the heaviest burden. You want to see it, then? Very well. But first, there is this other little matter that cannot wait, and he, poor lad, can."
Then he beckoned to the little band of blue-coated constables that were standing near, with the prisoner in their midst, and waved away those who held him.
"Take him to the local prison until Mr. Narkom is ready for him," he said in a cold, harsh voice. "The less time one spends in the company of such a devil the better. Come, gentlemen." He led the way down the dark little staircase, behind the panel, while they followed after him, stumbling in the semi-darkness. Down, down they went, almost into the bowels of the earth it seemed, until, of a sudden, the stairs stopped, and they stepped out into a wide, cavernous, rock-bound place, with a tiny passageway which led out into still another cave, and from thence to the seashore. The place was Uttered with picks and shovels, and the instruments that men use to extract metals from the earth, and there were trays full of broken earth-crust crumbled almost into dust in the search that had been made through it.
Here Cleek stopped and turned toward them.
"Don't expect you'll find many left, boys," he said to the men who stood waiting for his commands, "but hunt the place through. Every nook, every cranny. Don't let one escape. They've got the men working on the front, haven't they? Good. Now, get along with you. Gentlemen—Miss Doritt—" he turned toward them and threw out his hands in a little theatrical gesture that so much belied the character of him—"in this innocent-looking place you find the den of one of the smartest gangs of Government thieves in existence. True successors to those smugglers who used to use this very cave for the carrying out of their contraband goods. The office building of Mr. Joshua Burnaby's staff of miners, who are here for the purpose of extracting pitch-blende, and who have by now made a pretty penny out of it, too, or I'm a Dutchman."
"Mr. Cleek!" The name came involuntarily from young Fawcett's Ups. "Pitch-blende, sir?"
"Yes, pitch-blende, Mr. Fawcett. That particularly rare ore which, as you know, is extracted from the metal uranium, and is the substance from which radium is chiefly obtained. Our friend Mr. Burnaby must have discovered its existence here, for Cornwall is one of the very few spots in which it is to be found, and put his ingenuity to work immediately. His restoration of the church was a good excuse for getting natural admittance to the place, and the smugglers of old helped him in his plan by unconsciously building him a workshop right among the ore itself. But the process of extraction is necessarily a long one, and one has to have money in the first place to exploit it, for the pitch-blende, after its extraction from the uranium, has to be boiled in a concentrated solution of carbonate of soda, and the residue dissolved in hydrochloric acid. The radium and other metals are then precipitated in the form of insoluble sulphates by the addition of sulphuric acid. I've no doubt that we should find a complete laboratory in our friend Mr. Burnaby's house if we took the trouble to look, but we've proof enough here without that. What's that, Mr. Fawcett? How did I find out?
"Why, that little bit of lichen which I picked up in the pathway yesterday told me. Its species was a very special one, so special, in fact, that, like the pussy of the fairy story, I 'smelt a rat.' It was, in fact, a lichen that took the form of a piece of that particular kind of earth-crust which contains uranium. Then that oak panel at the back of the altar-piece, which Mr. Burnaby showed Mr. Narkom and myself yesterday, was another clue in the right direction. I noticed that the carving upon it was of a more modern, more cultured school than that which had conceived the altar-piece, and the edges of it had a smooth polished appearance as of the passage of fingers constantly upon it. Also, when I put my hand against it, it jarred silently, as if it had been often opened. Last night, when the rest of you good people were in bed, Mr. Narkom and I came down here to investigate. We found out—which, after all, is a policeman's duty, Mr. Fawcett—just as I happened to find out the reason of your little jaunt to Redruth, to see a man 'on business,' was to procure a marriage license made out in the name of Miss Rose Doritt and yourself, and arranged to take place this morning at eight o'clock. It was luck that guided me into the Town Hall, where I saw a man making out a record of that particular license right under my very nose—luck and Old Jeanie combined, for she seems to be a person who knows everybody else's business a great deal better than her own."
He looked at the two faces of the young couple and saw the truth of his statement written upon them. Mr. Luton-Bayber gazed from one to the other like a man demented.
"Married?" he said blankly. "You two married?"
"Yes, and likely to very happy, too, I should say, from the look of them," threw in Cleek softly.
"Mr. Fawcett, forgive me. I didn't think you had it in you, you know. To run away with a girl like that, out of hand, because she had refused you repeatedly, and then bring a marriage license to wave in her face. Women always loved, and always will love, the cave-man ancestor rather better than the polished descendant of to-day. Come, let us get back into God's daylight again, and find the end of the riddle at last."
He turned upon his heel and led the way once more up the narrow stone stairway into the body of the church, and from there out through the great doors, which he unlocked quietly with his key, into the sunshine. Mr. Luton-Bayber followed him with a stricken, ashen face.
"My boy!" he kept saying softly to himself. "My own little Ronnie! Where is he, Mr. Cleek? Where is he?"
"Up there," said Cleek quietly, pointing one arm, above the church door to the seventh niche, where the infant Samuel sparkled and shone with its coating of new gold. "Hidden in that figure, and set up as one of God's own little angels, Mr. Luton-Bayber. Steady, man, steady! God! I can imagine what the shock must be, but the choice was surely a happy one, if there is anything to find in it that can have the element of happiness marked there. Sit down a minute, old chap, and rest yourself. There!" as he led him to an oak bench, that stood on one side of the church door, for the weary to rest before entering into its sacred precincts. "That's better! What? You want to hear all about it? Very well, then, I'll tell you. In the first place, I made the discovery yesterday, when I came here with that brute-beast, and saw the figure lying on the ground, ready to be hoisted into place. He told me the statues were plaster casts, but when one of the workmen lifted it, it struck me that there was more than 'plaster cast' in that particular figure, if not in the others. So I gave him a hand with it, just to see. The weight was something under five stone; four stone odd is about the average weight of a boy of ten; the rest of it lies in the stuff that covers the body.
"Secondly, with my finger-nail I had flaked off a bit of the gilt, and found that there was some other sort of substances which had a strong smell underneath. It proved to be varnish. And the height of the statue, too—roughly, I should say it is about three feet six, the height of your boy, Mr. Luton-Bayber, from what you tell me. The—the odour that hung about the thing gave me the final clue. No doubt that arch-fiend had another statue of the infant Samuel all ready to put up in its place when opportunity afforded, but he chose that devil's hiding-place for the time being, until he could get the body away for good.
"And—what did you say, Miss Doritt? Why did he murder the boy? Why, for the simplest of reasons. You remember the lad's story of the discovery of a cave and his subsequent talk with a man called Andrew upon the seashore? Andrew was Burnaby himself, of course. The child did not know his name and the man gave that one as an extra 'blind.' The boy had obviously walked into the place unknowingly and Burnaby was afraid he would go home and talk about it to every one else. You can very easily see how Burnaby's undoing might have been brought about by the boy's absorbing interest in the cave and his very natural desire to share his discovery with his parents. No doubt Burnaby made a bargain with the lad to meet him the next day, and then —that was the end. The child was probably strangled, and the body carried down into the cave, where the abominable work of disguise was done.
"I think that is all. The riddle is solved, and I'll be getting back to London to the unravelling of other riddles. Mr. Luton-Bayber," he went toward the anguished figure upon the bench, and laid a hand upon the stricken shoulder, "good-bye, and God give you the solace that I cannot. To have lost your boy —your only boy! But the years are long yet, and perhaps—who knows? He may send you another one in his place. Miss Doritt," he crossed back again to where the young couple were standing, looking into each other's eyes with a sort of mingled happiness and shamed grief that was very apparent upon their faces, "don't try and make grief come when it isn't there to show for itself. You know what I mean—you must. If you didn't love the boy as you felt you ought—"
"I—I couldn't, Mr. Cleek; I couldn't. He was such a—a little beast to me; so rude and unmannerly and horrid—and now, when he's gone—"
"I know, I know. But there was no need for those reddened eyelids, was there? And you needn't have felt called upon to grieve—like that. Sincerity, you know, is the chief essential. But youth has much to learn, and I wish you all the happiness in the world. Good-bye, Mr. Fawcett, and good luck to you. Good-bye, all. Mr. Narkom, time's getting short, and I'm keen for the river and the roses again."
Then, with one long last look at the figure of the man for whom fife had lost all its joy, in that other little life that had gone out of it, he gave a short, sharp sigh, looked up into heaven, as if to solve the greater riddle there, and swung onward along the cliff's edge, with his hand in Mr. Narkom's arm, and was silent for a long, long time.
WITHIN the next few days all the joys of heaven were Cleek's, for he was content in the knowledge of Ailsa's safety. True, to have her so far from him took a little of the happiness away, but as she had written in her prompt letter, she was busy in making concluding purchases for that most important event of her life, her wedding, and happy in the knowledge that soon she would rejoin him never to part again. He spent much of his spare time in the garden, among the flowers he loved and which, in their very fragrance, reminded him so constantly of her. Up at cock-crow each morning with the first light of dawn, he was digging and delving and dreaming of the still greater joy when she, the woman who had drawn him up from the underworld, the woman for whose sake he had gladly given up a throne, should be his by all the laws of right—and might. Even Mr. Narkom, busy at Scotland Yard with the multitudinous small cases which occupied his time, was lulled into security and only satisfied himself by a daily 'phone call which told him that his beloved ally and friend was in safety.
At the end of the second week all was in readiness, and Cleek had determined to return to town the following day, to have a look around the Apache centres in Soho, to discover if possible the whereabouts of Margot's gang.
He slept as usual on the houseboat, anchored at the end of the landing stage, with Dollops curled up outside the door, like the faithful young animal he was. Every night Cleek would pack him off to his own bunk, and half an hour later would find him outside his master's door, curled up like a kitten and as fast asleep as though the very heavens themselves could never wake him.
Usually Cleek slept the dreamless, healthy sleep of the man at peace with himself and all the world, yet to-night he was wakeful, and knelt looking out of the little white-curtained houseboat window, his thoughts far away across that wider strip of water which separated him from Ailsa and all that he held most dear. And then, from out the silence and the solitude, as if over the very water itself, came a sound. It seemed to him to be a voice he knew. Surely it was, it must be! It was Ailsa herself calling to him in the vivid mental reaches of his mind's understanding.
Shaking himself still wider awake, he leaned forward, and listened, every nerve pricking and quivering. But there was no actual sound. The whole thing was supernatural, a sort of calling of soul to soul, and Cleek, unable to explain, yet assured that Ailsa, in some inexplicable way, needed him, turned and plunged out of the quiet of the cabin.
"Lor' lumme, sir, thought it was them Apaches again," ejaculated Dollops excitedly, as he leaped to his feet; then, catching sight of his master's grim, tense face, with the eyes like pin points, he lapsed into a startled silence, and waited for Cleek to speak.
"Lock all up and get back to town as sharp as you can," Cleek rapped out in grim, staccato tones. "I'm off to Paris!"
"Paris... sir, and without me!" began Dollops, his face the colour of a whitey-brown paper bag.
"Can't stop to explain, youngster," responded Cleek sharply. "Get to Mr. Narkom, tell him to 'phone through to the Chief of Police in Paris to give me official assistance, and look out for yourself."
He swung off into the semi-darkness of the summer night and before Dollops had fully mastered the situation he could hear the sound of Cleek's footsteps rapidly nearing the end of the landing stage.
A matter of forty-five minutes and Cleek was in London, and without stopping for bite or sup, change or message, he flung himself into a train that should take him to Dover, there to catch the first boat for Calais and thence to Paris, where he felt certain that Ailsa was in some dire distress. Frantically impatient, though outwardly calm, he arrived the next day in the "City of Pleasure" and drove direct to the Rue St. Gaulois, where the Baron and his daughter had been living, and from where Ailsa had written but three days ago.
Hardly had he been shown into the gilded drawing-room when the Baron himself came in, and the first glance of his grave face told Cleek that his intuitions were correct.
"Ah, m'sieur, but how glad I am to see you!" cried he shaking his hand vigorously, meanwhile resting anxious eyes upon Cleek's face. "But now you will explain—Miss Lorne—she is with you, eh? and safe? You get ze telegram?"
"With me? Safe? Telegram?" rapped out Cleek his face suddenly gone gray. "My God, Baron! what do you mean? Is Ailsa not with you then?"
"Non! I understood, Oh! mon Dieu! what has happened? Miss Lorne, so happy, went to meet you at ze Gare du Nord, and we, my daughter and I, we have not seen her since. I wire to you at ze Yard, do you call it, las' night, but now you are here. I can make no heads nor tails of anything. If not with you, then where is she?"
"God knows!"
Cleek sat a moment very, very still. He knew now why that cry had come to him in the night. Ailsa was in the hands of those devils, Maurevanian or Apaches, it mattered not, and he who loved her, who would have given his very life for her, was without clue or sign.
His face went suddenly grim, the lines about his mouth tightened until it was a mere slit in the gray mask of his face. At sight of it, the Baron crossed himself devoutly, as a good Catholic should, and waited in silence.
It might have been five minutes, it might have been ten, but to the waiting Baron it was an eternity before Cleek roused himself from the torpor into which the news had thrown him.
Then he said peremptorily: "Will you give me a room to go to and fro, no, no, not in the house, but have you a stable or outhouse, or something like that?"
"A room? But why not my guest here in ze house?" asked the Baron, only thankful to find himself of some use.
"No, no, it must not be the house. Some other part—stable or barn or—"
"Zere is ze empty garage, round at ze back," struck in the Baron, swiftly, with a nod of the head.
"Good! The very thing. Give me the key, and let me see what I can do."
He would say no more, but having finally got the key and seen Mlle, de Carjorae and comforted her with the assurance that they were not to blame, Cleek swung on his heel, and drifted out into the thronged streets of Paris, with one thought in his mind, to find Ailsa, and if need be—to kill.
RIOT and laughter reigned supreme in the lairs of the Apaches that night in Paris, and not even the police themselves would have ventured into many of the tiny cabarets at the back of Montmartre. Frequenters of the quarter buttoned their coats round them, as they heard the sound of the raucous, shrill laughter borne out through the open doors, and sniffed the heavy reek of wine and caporal that floated like a cloud above them. Yes, the Apaches were evidently in high feather, and as an ill-dressed, evil-looking fellow slouched into the Twisted Arm, his face disfigured with a hardly-healed scar from a recent fight, a little shout went up from two or three men, grouped round the bar over which Mother Marise was once more installed.
"Mon Dieu! Gustave Lerue, Gustave! They said you were dead. Died in prison!" cried out a few of them in the harsh staccato of excitement. The man Gustave shook his head. "Sacre nom," he growled, and his hand went instinctively to his pocket. "Show me the man who said the he and I'll choke him dead!" He spat on the sawdust floor. "Let the pigs of police look out for themselves. I'm in funds, brother. Here's to Margot. Drink to our Queen!" He threw a gold coin on to the bar, and joined in the rush made for the glasses of green absinthe that were instantly forthcoming. Soon indeed a noisy, shouting medley of humanity crowded about him, talking and listening to his plans of revenge for his capture some six months ago, and relating in their turn events which had happened in his absence.
It was Marise who came laughing and leering at him later in the night. "I've a pretty bride for you, Gustave, mon ami!" She shrugged her shoulders and wagged a dirty forefinger in his face. "A pretty bride, since you are so rich. An English bride. What think you of her?"
"What think I? That you had better keep her for some other man. I care not for the cold English ladies, Marise," he gave back roughly. "Give me life, warmth. No icicles for Gustave, ma chère!"
A roar of drunken laughter greeted the joke. But Marise continued to persuade.
"She means money, Gustave. Margot told us to get this Ailsa Lorne and keep her. She is going to deal with her herself, when she returns next week. Much money for all of us, mon vieux, that's what it means!"
"Name of a dog! And who is this Ailsa Lorne you speak of?" demanded Gustave Lerue sleepily, throwing down another louis and lifting in its place still another glass of the greenish liquid that can so loosen the tongue and make such fools of wise men.
"Why, Gustave, and you to forget the Rat! the Man of the Forty Faces! It's his woman," responded Marise. "His woman, mon ami, remember that."
"Then she shall be mine instead!" Unsteadily he rose to his feet, an oath on his lips.
"It's that rat, Cleek, eh?" he broke out at last, shaking his fists in a sort of drunken frenzy. "Cleek, the Cracksman! Cleek, the Forty Faces! Ah! But Margot shall have them both. Cleek is in Paris, mes frères. I saw him here with my own eyes, coming out of the Rue de Nord."
Instantly there was pandemonium. And in the midst of it Lerue rose to his feet, swaying unsteadily, and shouted:
"Show me your English captive. Let me have a look at her, and then make her send for her lover. Mon Dieu! but I'll take the note myself, for I know where he is staying. Margot shall have the Rat safe under lock and key to-night, or my name isn't Gustave Lerue."
Another shout of approval greeted this, and Marise, fumbling in her bosom for a key, beckoned him to follow her.
A party of them went with him, evil-looking scoundrels each one. At the end of a dark passage behind the bar, Marise flung open a tiny door. Lerue peered into the half gloom. His eyes caught sight of a figure, bound with a rope to the chair upon which she sat, the shrinking figure of Ailsa Lorne, white-faced, terrified, and half, fainting from the fear that was within her.
Gustave swaggered up, and tapped her face insolently with his finger.
"A bit too pale for me," he snickered with a drunken leer. "Get some wine, and let's make the colour come. See, ma belle, thou shalt dance for us, instead of the Cracksman."
The wooden roof rang again with the shouts this idea brought forth. One went for wine, while another slashed at the rope which bound her lagging form. With a harsh, drunken laugh, Gustave dragged her to her feet.
"Now, my pretty, we'll have a dance and a song. Look up for a kiss. Ah! cold, cold as death are the lips of her, comrades! I would not wish another. Come!"
He forced her to swallow some of the wine, brought by Marise herself, and was still grasping her in his filthy hands when there came an ominous sound of knocking in the shop beyond. Instantly a silence fell. Then:
"Open, in the name of the law!"
"The Police!" They scattered like rabbits, only Marise pausing uncertain of what best course to take.
"The girl! It's my life if Margot loses her," she whimpered, looking up into Lerue's face. He gave a sharp laugh.
"I'll carry her off through the passage under ground. Go and get rid of these dogs outside."
With a nod of comprehension and relief Marise disappeared, locking the door behind her, and Gustave pried up a hidden trap door.
Then he turned to Ailsa, who was crouched, half fainting, in the corner. And his voice took on a sudden new and familiar note.
"Quick, Ailsa, my darling! Be brave a few minutes longer." Cleek tore off the disguising wig and caught her to him, lifting her bodily in his arms.
She gave a little cry of happiness. "My dear! my dear!" Then together they descended into the sewer's depths, at the end of which Cleek knew lay safety, and the upper world at last.
A hastily produced pocket torch lit the way for them; above him, already, Cleek could hear the roar of the Apaches, who had returned to find their prey missing. It seemed ages, though but a few short minutes, before a glimmer of light and the end of the passage brought them up to the living world again.
"Oh, my dear, my dear!" Ailsa whispered, as Cleek set her down in the safety of a dark doorway and leaned back against it. "To think, just to think what might have been!"
For a moment, recollection of the peril just passed held them both dumb, then Cleek, with a sharp laugh, stepped out suddenly and hailing a taxi drove back again to the Baron's house.
But he would not risk another night in Paris, and an hour later saw them on board the train, on their return journey to London and the safety and vigilance of the Yard.
They found Mr. Narkom, to whom they had wired their safety, anxiously awaiting them at Charing Cross, with Dollops in attendance, and the relation of their adventure was not likely to add to the Superintendent's comfort.
"What are you going to do now?" he queried, as they entered the limousine.
"Drive to the Hotel Rose and put up there, and you can put a few plain-clothes men on guard," was Cleek's quick reply. "Don't worry, Mr. Narkom; we have won out again, and perhaps this time for good and all."
But it was all very well to tell Mr. Narkom not to worry. As a matter of fact, he had already reached the stage known as "fairly frantic" over the events of the past week. However, when he entered his private office at Scotland Yard a fortnight later he dropped into his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. For the first time that week, his report sheet was clear. Good! He had scotched that gang of smugglers at last. Now he would be freed from the reproaches of his colleagues and the sneering smiles of his subordinates, as every fresh case had been brought home to his notice. Gad! he'd just like them to be in his place for a week, and see whether they could stop unlimited cargoes of saccharine being passed through the Custom House, absolutely free from duty and discovery only being made when it was too late, through the channels of the Secret Service spies and the political underworld.
The oncoming of footsteps outside caused him no qualms of doubt. This time he would be able to report a clean sheet; and at the opening and closing of the door behind him he wheeled round with the dignity of a judge of the High Court of Chancery itself.
"Well, Petrie?" he said blandly to the detective-sergeant who stood with bared head in front of him. "All right this time, eh? I thought my little dodge would work—searching every vessel in the port, one at a time. Speak up, man. There isn't anything to report, is there?"
"Yes, sir. There's another case got through somehow," gave back Petrie with just the suspicion of a change in his imperturbable countenance. "Mr. Kesteven has just wired through to the Yard with the news."
"Another case! Good heavens, man, it's impossible! Every boat and passenger has been searched by my own men."
"Yes, sir," said Petrie patiently, "but it's true, sir. Mr. Kesteven at the Customs says the source of information is an unim—unim—"
"Unimpeachable one," rapped out the Superintendent irritably.
"Yes, sir. Hate them four-barrelled words myself. That's the sixth case this week. Some one's making a pretty good thing out of it. Saccharine's fetching a fair price just now, but if this goes on—"
"Goes on!" Mr. Narkom drummed his fists impatiently on the arms of his revolving chair. "Goes on! If it does, I shall go mad. Man alive, you don't know what this means. It means the total ruin of industry, international espionage, and possibly a war, if something isn't done. Meanwhile, of course, it is all my fault. Gad! I'd like to give 'em a taste of it!"
Detective Petrie gave a little dry cough, glanced nervously at the frowning face of his chief, then finally, taking his courage in both hands, spoke out:
"There's only one man as can get to the bottom of it, sir, and that's Mr. Cleek," said he nervously, shifting from one foot to the other. "'Tisn't many queer things has happened but what he hasn't solved them."
"Oh, I know that," flung out Narkom, frowning harder than ever. "You needn't remind me of what he's done. But the devil of it is, he's not in town. The constant strain of dodging that band of Apaches who have sworn to be revenged on Mm for the old Vanishing Cracksman days has finally told even on Cleek, and I persuaded him to go away and rest and let his enemies think him out of the country. Just wait until we catch them at some of their desperate games in England, then we shall rid Cleek of his incubus forever. Meanwhile, there's the blessed saccharine coming in as if it were wheat. I've half a mind to run down and see Miss Lorne, but Lord! what'd be the use? No one will ever find Hamilton Cleek, unless he's ready to come back."
At that particular moment the telephone bell jangled harshly, and Mr. Narkom spun round like a shot and seized hold of the receiver. The sound of some one whistling the opening bars of "God Save the King" came rippling to him over the wire.
"Gad! it's he himself. I—oh, my dear chap, I never was so glad to hear you are back, in my life." He lowered his voice, "For heaven's sake, don't go away. Hold the line one minute." He turned to the waiting sergeant. "Clear out, Petrie; send Lennard along."
"You there, Cleek? All right. Just sent for Lennard. You can't think how glad I am to get you back. What's that? Urgent? I should think it is urgent. I say, can you contrive to meet me somewhere this morning? What? Yes, I'm listening.... Oh, lord! the beggars still at it! I thought our last trick had done 'em. All right; I understand. It's a bit risky, but we'll do our best. Villiers Street, in half an hour, eh? All right. Good-bye."
And that was how it came to pass that half an hour later, Mr. Maverick Narkom, restored to his old debonair self, sallied forth from Scotland Yard. There, drawn up to the curb, the very latest thing in limousines awaited him, and he dropped into it with something akin to a smile lighting up his round, podgy features.
A little crowd of boys had collected idly round the entrance to the Yard, talking and laughing among themselves, and in the midst of the crowd, ragged and dirty, was a little Parisian gamin, his sallow face alight with curiosity.
"Charing Cross Station, Lennard, as fast as you can streak it. Must catch the eleven o'clock boat train," shouted Mr. Narkom as he jumped into the limousine and swung the door to behind him. "And keep a sharp look-out for Mr. Cleek at Villiers Street; he'll be disguised as an old road sweeper."
"Very well, sir," said Lennard. Then as he noticed the time on his clock dial before him, he gave a low whistle.
"Crikey! Only three minutes!" he said, as he wrenched the car round and let her go full tilt.
Yet he was not so quick as the little French urchin, who was scudding along the Embankment as if the arms of the law were already after him.
Fate was evidently against Lennard that morning, in the shape of another car, obviously of foreign make and driven by a French chauffeur, who seemed bent on getting in his way, and he wasted much good English breath telling the driver what he thought of his methods and manners.
It was just under the arch approaching Villiers Street, however, that the accident happened. The rival cars were very close to each other, and Lennard, glancing up at the little army of road sweepers busily engaged in their labours, was just in time to see one of their number put down his broom, run out into the open roadway directly in front of the fast-moving wheels, and then, even as he shut down the brakes and tried to bring the machine to a standstill, the front wheel caught the figure of the running man, whipped him quickly off his feet, and sent him crashing down into the roadway.
He spoke as he fell, muttered something, gave a little writhing twist of the body, and was still, lying like a dead thing, even as Mr. Narkom, with a hurried exclamation of dismay, jumped from the limousine and went pelting toward him while a policeman on point duty, receiving a sign from his chief, hurried off and waved back the fast-approaching crowd.
But Lennard was already kneeling beside the still figure, with well-marked horror in his face.
"He's dead, sir," said he softly, rising to his feet. "Dead as a door nail, poor devil!" Then, lifting up his leathern driving apron, he threw it reverently over the body and bared his head.
The crowd that had accumulated hissed at Mr. Narkom as he turned on his heel and looked at them, his face grim and set. Then a hurried colloquy with the constable on duty brought reverent obedience.
Meanwhile, the other car had driven rapidly away, pounding off in the opposite direction at a mad rate that ate up the miles like a cat lapping cream, and at the sight of which the Superintendent gave vent to a little sigh of relief.
"Leave it to me," said he loudly to the constable. "I'll take him to the hospital in the car. Poor fellow! So careless of Lennard, though it was hardly his fault. No need for the ambulance." And, refusing all assistance save Lennard's, he lifted the body, with the apron still covering its face, and deposited it gently in the limousine; then slowly the car was turned round and went wending its way in the direction of Westminster Hospital, to the accompaniment of the boos of a hostile crowd and the rumble of the passing traffic.
Yet, when that selfsame crowd had been left far behind and the blinds of the limousine drawn by Mr. Narkom's hand, a strange thing happened. For the "corpse" sat up suddenly, throwing off the leathern apron, and looked at the Superintendent with a little laugh of triumph.
"Well played!" said he in Cleek's voice, and with Cleek's own little trick of speech. "Played indeed, Mr. Narkom, and Lennard, too; though I had to remind him with a wink to cover my face up. What's that, dear friend?"
"A pretty close shave," struck in the Superintendent grimly, with his hand on Cleek's arm. "Too close to make me altogether comfortable. But it ought to give those johnnies the 'push' for a while at least. They drove off like mad things, taken completely in, by James! Directly I spotted that little French rascal on the steps I knew something was up. That's why I gave out your disguise."
Cleek gave a little purring laugh.
"A master stroke that!" he said delightedly. "I had to make a sprint for it, though, and I shall be glad of a rest. Not that there's much chance of that while you're around. I only rang you up just to let you know I was still upon this planet. But who's in trouble this time, dear friend, eh?"
"I am," said Mr. Narkom, simply, pulling a long face. "I wasn't able to tell you over the 'phone, but the Heads are blaming me. I wonder what the dickens they expect me to do! Be in a dozen places at once, by James!"
"Supposing you tell me the facts," interposed Cleek gently, lighting a cigarette from the case Mr. Narkom proffered him.
"It's a case of continual smuggling."
Cleek erected his eyebrows.
"It's saccharine, and it's coming in like water, no one knows from where, or how; only that not a cent of duty is being paid."
"Oho!" said Cleek, with a strong rising inflection. "The limousine seems to be travelling, Mr. Narkom. Where the dickens?" He stopped and looked out of the window to where the great road on either side of them spun from the wheels like a rolled-up tape-measure.
The Superintendent settled his mouth.
"Southampton," he flung out sharply. "Captain Kesteven, in command of the Custom House at Southampton, is perfectly enraged over the whole affair."
"H'm-m!" said Cleek, pinching up his chin. "It isn't another case of a barking dog and the burglar's friend, I suppose?"
"Not he," threw in the Superintendent, with a shake of the head.
"The Lord helps those who help themselves, sometimes," put in Cleek gently. "Well, my friend, we must wait and see. Meanwhile, as it sometimes, happens that the fool knows the least and sees the most, we had better proceed to dig up that blithering idiot 'George Headland' again, 'the smartest man in the Force, by James!' and see what he can do in the matter. Then, if we can't manage to put a stop to this business and finish it once and for all, my name's not Hamilton Cleek!"
IT was getting late in the afternoon when they reached Southampton, but they drove straight down to the Custom House, where Mr. Narkom sent in his official card, and together with Mr. George Headland waited in the little anteroom which evidently served as an office.
Two minutes later the door was flung open, and a tall, elderly gentleman fairly flung himself upon the Superintendent, clasping his hand as though it belonged to a long-lost brother. It was Captain Kesteven, the Head of the Custom House. He was a fine, hale, gray-haired, gray-bearded man of about fifty-five or sixty; a man with something of the naval officer in his bearing.
Mr. Narkom coughed slightly and waved a hand toward Cleek, who stood just behind him.
"This is Mr. George Headland," said he, smiling a little at the Captain's look of amazement. "He's taken the place of Cleek, Hamilton Cleek, you know."
"Suppose you tell us the facts, Captain Kesteven. And then perhaps my colleague and myself can get to work."
The Captain, who was much agitated, pulled himself together with obvious effort, and waved his hand in the direction of some chairs.
"How long has it been going on?" asked Cleek quietly, tipping his head on one side and looking so altogether stupid that Captain Kesteven eyed him in unveiled contempt.
"Nearly five weeks," he replied. "We have a special number of Secret Service men making observations, and they reported the cases to me. I have it down here in my official report book." He crossed over to his desk, returning to the table with a large, leather-bound volume.
"Here you are. 'June 8th. Case of saccharine got through free. Reported. Starchpelt.' Here you are again. '15th, ditto, 19th, ditto, 24th, ditto...'"
Cleek put up a detaining hand.
"Stop. One minute," said he blandly. "There couldn't be any mistake, I suppose? This Starchpelt, as you call him, is—"
"One of the finest men in the service."
"Hum! Ah! quite so. And now, what about the boats? What manner of craft are they, and where do they come from?"
"Havre, mostly. You see, just now vast quantities of French dairy produce, fruits, and vegetables are being landed, and we had every one searched. Mr. Narkom's own men have been hard at it. Even the crates of vegetables were overturned, and the boats themselves searched from stem to stern. I tell you, sir, if we don't get to the bottom of it, all the French vessels will go to Portsmouth. They are grumbling bitterly."
"At what?" struck in Cleek, with sudden uplifting of his eyebrows. "They don't like being searched, do you mean?"
The Captain shook his great head.
"No, it's the delay. Everything depends on their catching the boat trains to London, and all this searching takes time."
"H'm-m! And what boats have you in harbour now?"
"Practically none but our own, sailing out tomorrow, the great liners, you know, and a few small trading-boats from Havre and Brittany. They bring most of the dairy produce, make weekly trips. I don't see there's anything more to tell you."
"Nothing else to do but to look at the boats for ourselves," said Mr. Narkom, looking over into George Headland's dull countenance.
"The very thing I should suggest," said Captain Kesteven eagerly, and jumping to his feet, he grabbed for his official cap. From the Custom House it took but a few minutes to reach the harbour, which bore a curiously deserted look. Two or three great liners lay in the docks, while at anchor rode a few French boats, their decks still crowded with the empty packing cases in which their cargoes had been carried.
"Every one of these was unloaded under police supervision," said Captain Kesteven. "That one is La Chirefloux," pointing to the nearest. "Skipper—Marton; as honest as the day. La Rose...."
"Hello!" interrupted Cleek abruptly, as his eyes swept over the various boats. "That's a peculiar-looking object, that black one at the end."
Captain Kesteven's eyes lit up.
"Ah! so Jean Bertillot has come back! That means my wife has returned from her holiday as well. She said she would sail with Jean. A splendid fellow. That's his boat, La Fleurette Noire, Mr. Headland, sailed and owned by the finest man that ever drew breath, and, by heaven! the most unhappy."
Cleek switched round so suddenly as almost to startle the grim-faced Captain, whose eyes had grown strangely soft.
"Unhappy?" he said. "Why should he be unhappy? Or perhaps you don't know?"
"It happens that I do, for I, or rather, my wife, was the means of making him happy for a few months."
He drew out his cigarette case and offered it to Cleek and Mr. Narkom, and lighted one himself.
"It was this way," he continued, blowing out the match and tossing it into the swirl of green waters below them. "He lost his young wife on their wedding trip, five years ago. He is a sort of protégé of mine, and I have known him since he was a lad, when he came to and fro on his father's boat before him. My wife, some years ago, had a desire to have a maid from Brittany, and Jean Bertillot said he would procure her one from his native village some twenty miles from Havre. He brought us Rose Marie, a girl as good as gold, industrious and honest to a fault, and we were delighted with her. Well, we did not have her long. Bertillot discovered that she was more necessary to him than to us, and married her forthwith, and we attended the wedding in Brittany. You may imagine our dismay when La Fleurette Rouge, as the craft was then called, returned without her."
"Hello!" said Cleek, with a twitch of the eyebrows. "So he changed the name of his boat, eh?"
"Yes," said the Captain. "I think he worshipped Rose, and after her death (it seems she contracted ptomaine poisoning on board, died, and was buried at sea) he became like a different man. He is morose and embittered, but faithful. My word, I'd trust my life to Jean Bertillot. Well, when he got to harbour he spent all his profits on painting his boat black, everything is black, inside and out: cabins, decks, sails, as you can see for yourself, a regular raven amongst doves. And he re-christened her La Fleurette Noire. Very few men, in fact, will work on her; they say it's so damnably gloomy. Well, it's his own boat, and he does what he likes. Ever since that day, however, he has plied to and fro, with his butter and eggs; he doesn't seem to care whether he sells them or not. He's just brokenhearted."
"What I call a bully boy," said Cleek, nodding his head approvingly. "Isn't every man mourns for his bride for five years, or gives up money-making, either, especially a Brittany man. Women are their natural servants there. Ah! well."
"Jean is certainly a splendid fellow," said the Captain warmly, "and has worked like a Trojan with me to see that no suspicious characters or cargoes have been landed."
"I'd like to have a chat with him," said Cleek, shading his eyes from the sun and peering intently over the blue, sunlit harbour, where the sea lay like a shimmering, jewel-set cloak of green velvet.
"So you shall, Mr. Headland," said the Captain, nodding, with perhaps just a little tinge of irony in his voice. "Perhaps he'll be able to give you some ideas."
"Perhaps he will," answered Cleek enigmatically.
He followed the Captain down to the little quay where La Fleurette Noire had anchored, her black decks and rigging looking even more depressing when at close quarters than at a distance.
A little crowd of gesticulating, chattering Breton sailors were on the deck, amidst them just a patch of white: a woman's dress, and at the sight of its wearer Cleek gave a cry of ecstatic delight and rushed off at headlong speed, leaving Mr. Narkom to explain to a justly-aggrieved Customs officer that this was one of the latest methods in detecting on the part of his "smartest officer, by James!"
But Cleek cared nothing for Customs or smugglers just then, for here, within a hundred yards, was Ailsa Lorne, who had vanished from the riverside cottage, leaving but a brief note "to allay anxiety."
But now the waves took on a brighter blue, the sun shone more royally, but not more so than Cleek's face, as he helped her along the coal-black gangway.
"A stroke of sheer luck, this, or am I dreaming?" he said softly, with a little laugh of pure rapture. "Ailsa, is it you, my dear, my dear?"
"It is indeed," she made answer with a quick smile. "But surely you got my letter? It should have arrived to-day."
"For which Mr. Narkom is to be blamed," said Cleek, with an inward frown for that gentleman.
She gave vent to a happy little laugh.
"Never mind!" said she softly, looking up into his face with shining eyes. "I am rather glad you didn't. Somehow, the crossing on that boat has got on my nerves. My old Breton nurse, Jeannette, wrote to me that she was very ill, so I could not help but go to her; and, not wanting to wait for the other boat, I came back on this one, with Mrs. Kesteven. But," with this she gave a little shiver, "it's full of mystery."
Cleek's face twitched with sudden interest. "Mystery? What do you mean by that, I wonder?"
They had crossed to the end of the quay, and Ailsa gave a little nervous look over her shoulder before she answered him. Then, seeing that they were out of all ear-shot:
"It is only just a fancy, I expect, on my part. The blackness of everything got on my nerves—but I fancied I heard all kinds of queer sounds during the night. I slept on board last evening, so as to be sure and get the boat train; but it was so hot and stuffy in the cabin that I threw a cloak around me and went out on deck. It was then I saw—" She broke off.
"Saw what?" said Cleek, with a quick in taking of the breath.
She gave another nervous little giggle.
"It sounds so silly," she said apologetically, "but I saw a match strike itself on a box. I know you'll think I'm mad, but I saw the yellow matchbox and the white match. I even heard the scratching sound it makes when it ignites, yet there was no one there! I don't think I was ever so frightened in my life."
"But where did you see the matchbox?" asked Cleek, quietly watching her face with keen, searching eyes.
"Just inside the cabin, next to mine. Rose Marie's cabin, they call it, and the crew swear that it is haunted. Hush!" She stopped short as the Superintendent, together with Captain Kesteven and a tall, pale-looking woman with faded hair approached, and lifted a warning finger. "Don't say a word. They are both so fond of Jean Bertillot. I've known Captain Kesteven for years, you know, and I wouldn't hurt their feelings for worlds, just for my own foolish imaginings."
Cleek nodded silently and, joining the others, the whole party drove to the Captain's house for tea and a rest after their journey. There was time enough to see over the boats to-morrow morning; to-night he insisted that they must rest.
"Jean doesn't unload till the morning," said Mrs. Kesteven, as they drove away. "He told me he was in no hurry; so you can look over his cargo in the morning if you like."
"I've put a man on guard," said the Captain. "No one will be allowed to set foot in the town or leave it till I'm on duty to-morrow. Here's the house, gentlemen. I expect you'll be glad enough for a rest and a wash. Motoring isn't as conducive to cleanliness as some people think."
When, half an hour later, Cleek and Mr. Narkom went upstairs to their bedroom and shut the door, Cleek's face was as keen as a terrier's, and his eyes fairly snapped with excited interest.
"Going to be a corker this time, and no mistake," said Mr. Narkom dejectedly. "I stopped to speak to that chap Bertillot, while you were with Miss Lorne, and it's just as they say, he's a fine fellow—a—a—" His voice trailed off into silence as he noted the curious look on Cleek's face.
"Cleek, old chap!" he cried, and the hard hammering of his heart made his voice quaver. "Good lord! man, don't say you've got a clue already, out of nothing! Tell me—who—what—"
Cleek turned on Narkom, who was hopping round the room in a veritable fever of impatience.
"It's only just a faint idea, old chap. It may not lead anywhere. So let me alone, like a good fellow. Go downstairs, like a friend, and entertain these people for me. Do anything, say anything, but just let me alone."
And Mr. Narkom, suppressing his curiosity with a slightly disappointed air, promptly went out of the room, and left Cleek to his own resources.
IT was barely six o'clock, on the following morning, when Cleek and Mr. Narkom found themselves once more on the quay, looking out for Captain Kesteven.
"Early birds," said that gentleman as soon as he caught sight of them. "Going to take a hand at helping Jean unload, eh?"
"Yes, that's it," said Cleek serenely. "I'd like to have a look at his boat."
"Preposterous nonsense!" The Captain shrugged his shoulders scornfully. "You're barking up the wrong tree, I can tell you. Still, come along. Boat ahoy!" he shouted; and in a minute or so a sleepy figure came tumbling up on deck. "Jean, mon gars, we're coming on board."
"Mais oui, monsieur. But one moment, if you please," came back in the hoarse, broken tone of the Breton peasant. Then the black-painted gangway came crashing down and the three men crossed over on to La Fleurette Noire. Even as Cleek set foot on the pitch-black deck, he shivered in the morning sun as if the shadow of impending disaster hung over everything; and in that minute he came face to face with Jean Bertillot.
The man was tall and dark, with heavy-lidded eyes and soot-black hair. There was an olive hue to his skin, but his fine eyes were gray and wrinkled at the corners, and his mouth had a pathetic droop. He stared at the newcomers with simple unconsciousness.
"A couple of officers from London, Jean, who have come to look into the matter of the smuggling," was the way the Captain introduced the subject. "Just a matter of form. You don't mind them looking over La Fleurette, do you?"
"Mais non, m'sieu', of a certainty not," said Jean smoothly, with a wonderful courtesy. "It is of a business but all mysterious."
He led the way over the boat without further ado.
"That's so," agreed George Headland, his heavy face appearing even more stupid than before.
"A fine boat this, skipper." They had reached what was evidently Bertillot's own cabin. "And I don't mind telling you, now I've seen it, that all my ideas have gone to smash, so to speak. I'd a notion there might be a place in here where one of the men might have pushed in a box, don't you know."
"Well, of all the blithering nonsense!" broke out Captain Kesteven impulsively, while Bertillot looked from one to the other, as if only half comprehending the drift of "Mr. Headland's" remarks.
"A box in 'ere!" he echoed. "But non, m'sieu', zere is no box. Zis is my cabin, my own, no one sets ze foot in 'ere but myself."
"Quite right, skipper. I see now I am wrong. No room to hide a cat in here." Cleek swung round slowly on his heel, then as his hat slipped from his fingers to the floor, stooped slowly to pick it up.
"Bit of a facer for me, eh, what?" he said dejectedly. Then, as he caught sight of an oil stove standing on an empty packing case, he smacked his lips. "Have a morning cup of tea and an egg, eh? 'Pon me soul, I could do with a cup myself."
Jean Bertillot looked him up and down in withering contempt. "M'sieu' is pleased to joke. I not 'ave time for morning tea."
"Like a little something stronger, eh?" Cleek chuckled inanely; then lurched over, accidentally striking a case of eggs packed by the egg factor at Havre.
Jean Bertillot uttered a hurried exclamation, and Cleek blundered away again, apologizing profusely.
"I'm like a bull in a china shop," he muttered under his breath, as he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Then, suddenly, he went off on another tack. "Tell you what, it's so precious dark in here, and stuffy; let's have that port hole opened." He lurched over, this time catching his foot in the black-dyed matting which covered the floor and, in the circumstances, it was only natural that he should lose his balance. With a hasty exclamation of dismay, he clutched hold of the nearest crate of eggs, righting himself from what would have been a foolish and hasty fall, and sent the crate clattering to the floor with a heavy crash that made everything in the cabin clatter and jangle together.
Bertillot's face grew red with anger as the lid burst open, and the top layer of eggs tumbled out pell mell over the floor. Considering the force of the fall, it was surprising that more eggs had not broken, and Cleek, fairly covered with confusion at the blunder he had made, tried to make restitution by saving as many as possible, to a running accompaniment of oaths and maledictions from Bertillot, who, when there were only the broken yolks to be seen, darted from the cabin, returning in a second with a cloth of a brilliant yellow colour, with which he wiped up the stains. Still apologetic, Cleek raised himself up.
"I think, m'sieur, a cigarette would not be unacceptable." He stopped short, as a faint clicking sound came through the closed door; but only for a second; then he fumbled clumsily in his pocket, pulling out his cigarette case and holding it toward Bertillot.
The Breton scowled, but his love of good tobacco triumphed, and he put out a brawny hand. Like a flash Cleek's hand closed upon it, and Narkom leaped forward. Came a struggle, short, sharp, infinitely fierce and then: the snapping of steel against steel, the harsh music of the handcuffs, and Bertillot stood a prisoner, while Captain Kesteven, too dazed by the sudden turn of events, gazed helplessly at the three of them.
"Good heavens!" he cried out at last. "Are you mad? Mr. Narkom, I appeal to you! This is rankest idiocy! What has Jean done?"
Cleek whipped round upon him, breathing hard, something bright, triumphant, gleaming in his eyes.
"He has smuggled his last tube of saccharine into the country, my friend, that's what he's done!" he said, with a little theatrical gesture that sat oddly upon the personality of George Headland.
"Impossible!" Captain Kesteven's face still showed utter disdain of the matter. "How has he done it, man? How could he?"
"By a very simple but effective plan. I rather think you will find the tubes in those hard-boiled eggs over there, and I shouldn't be surprised if the pats of butter had not got their little loads also."
He stepped over to the big crate and lifted an egg from it, tapping the shell upon the window sill, while Bertillot, a writhing, cursing furious thing, watched him with absolute hatred in his eyes. The shell broke, and he severed the egg with his fingers. In the centre of the crumbling yellow yolk lay a tiny glass tube, an inch or so long, filled with what appeared to be white powder.
For a moment there was a silence—tense, terrible, fraught with the bitter disappointment of a broken faith, the bitter triumph of a task fulfilled.
Then:
"Bertillot, Jean, Jean! And I would have trusted you with my life!" broke forth the Captain in a dull, hurt voice, as the man stood looking sullenly at him.
But Cleek laid a gentle hand upon the Captain's shoulder.
"You wouldn't if you knew he was cousin to Gaston Merode, the worst Apache in Paris," said he quietly. "I've a good memory for faces, mon ami, and I haven't lived in the 'Twisted Arm' days for nothing. Margot's slave! Margot's pet! Margot's pretty tool for the execution of her vile work! A dollar to a ducat she's at the bottom of this!"
The man made no response; merely stood there in a sullen silence; and Cleek switched round upon his heel and laid a hand upon the Superintendent's arm.
"How did I guess?" he said, in answer to Mr. Narkom's excited query. "First, I wasn't so impressed with that mourning idea as the rest of you, and when a match was struck on a box by invisible hands, I felt sure that some trickery was being done. And that's the explanation of the Vanishing Lady's trick, as our friend Mr. Devant makes it. A clever trick, too, by Jupiter. Clever as sin. Simply black against black. Put a man in a black suit, mask, and gloves, in the centre of equally black surroundings, and I'll swear you won't any of you see him. Bertillot could pass from one cabin to the other unnoticed. I confess I was a bit puzzled about this method of smuggling in the stuff, until I saw that egg-timer over there."
He pointed to the somewhat old-fashioned contrivance standing on a little shelf just above the oil stove, and Narkom sighed in a sort of dumb admiration.
"That settled it. Then, again, a fall like that which the crate received ought to have smashed every egg in the place, and when I picked them up and helped the good work a little bit further with my fingers, I knew I was right. I had suspected some-thing when I picked up the chip of eggshell just by the table, and the yellow cloth settled the matter. Why the yellow cloth, my friend? Because it would show no yellow stains, after wiping away the yolk, when the tubes were pressed into the egg. A clever trick, Monsieur Jean Bertillot, a very clever trick, but—"
The sentence was never finished. For just then a strange thing happened. From between Bertillot's lips a chuckle proceeded, fiendish, malicious, full of devilry, and La Fleurette Noire, which was anchored in harbour lifted suddenly, dropped, swung round a little and began slowly to move!
Some one had cut the cable; some one who was in this devil's pay had released the ship from its moorings and set it free.
"My God!" broke out Captain Kesteven furiously. But Cleek's extended hand silenced him.
There was the soft splashing of oars outside, telling of an approaching boat; some enemy's trick, no doubt. The three of them made a wild plunge for the door, but it was locked and locked from the outside. As Bertillot was their prisoner, so were they Bertillot's.
Mr. Narkom looked at Cleek, Cleek looked at Mr. Narkom: their silent lips framed the one word "Apaches!" Their faces grew a shade paler.
Then Cleek drew himself up. The character of George Headland fell from him like a mask. There was something almost regal in his bearing, something that brought the wonder-light into Captain Kesteven's astonished eyes.
"Who are you?" he said briefly.
The answer came just as brief.
"Cleek, just Cleek of Scotland Yard. And so this, after all, is the end—the end!"
Bertillot chuckled again. He lifted his head and chimed out the old Apache cry, "Hola, hola! la! la! loi!" that went ringing upward into the outer spaces beyond. An answering call came to him.
"Aha! we change places but ver' soon, M'sieu' Cleek," he said shrilly, in an utter abandonment of triumph. "Ze Vanishing Cracksman who deserted us like a rat! Ze man of Forty Faces. Bah!" He spat furiously upon the ground in front of him. "Not all your tricks nor all your faces can save you now. It is your last trick that has been played, not mine! not mine!"
Cleek lifted up his head and shut his fists.
"That remains to be seen, mon ami," he gave back serenely, giving his mouth a curious little twist. "So some one is to let us out of this, is he? Well, we shall see, we shall see. Steady yourself, Mr. Narkom; there's likely to be some little rush for our company shortly, and we must stand prepared."
And rush there was. For at that identical moment a key grated in the rusty lock of the doorway; there came the sound of the door crashing back against the woodwork, a scream of triumph, the harsh sound of many voices, and Margot, followed by a string of chattering, gesticulating Apaches, plunged into the room. She faced Cleek with flashing eyes and upthrown head, all the hatred of a thousand years crammed into her insolent face.
"So, M'sieur Cleek," said she, sweeping him a deep courtesy, "so, m'sieur, we come face to face at last! My revenge, eh? Not yours, but mine, mine! Nom de Dieu! but I shall enjoy it. If I could kill you but fifty times instead of a paltry once, for every insult, every sneer! So many times have you escaped us, but now—now!"
She lifted her hand and struck him across the face, fairly screaming in her triumph, like some witch at the fulfillment of her charm. But Cleek never moved, merely stood there, staring back into her eyes with a charming courtesy.
Finally she moved away.
"Unloosen Bertillot," she commanded, and the man stood free instantly. Then she began speaking with him in low, hurried tones; finally issuing instructions to the men who swarmed about her. The tubes were taken from the eggs and passed over to Bertillot again, and she watched the proceedings with snapping eyes, clapping her hands now and again excitedly.
"Hurry, mes amis, hurry! We must not be caught like rats in a trap. Oh, mon Dieu! but it was a grand idea—a grand idea!" She tinned her black eyes toward Cleek. "Rats in a trap; but that is splendid—magnifique! Quick! Bind them to the chairs, and scuttle the ship. La Fleurette will be sunk before help can come, and we can watch from a safe distance! Jean Bertillot, fitting your boat with wireless was a masterstroke. Name of a devil! But of a verity I cannot yet believe it. The great Cleek, the Cracksman, caught, caught! And the fat English pig, too!"
She laughed uproariously, clapping her hands and fairly dancing in her utter delight.
The three men made no struggle when the bonds were thrown about them and they were tied to the furniture, like animals for slaughter; the odds were too heavy. Only a dull resistance glowed in their eyes.
"Shall we gag them, Margot, ma reine, put in Bertillot, as the last knot was tied, the last rope bound, and the Apaches stood back delightedly to survey their handiwork.
"But no, of a certainty. Let them squeal like the rats they are. Rats in a trap! Come, mes enfants! Come away from the ship, home again to Paris, and to the end of the Cracksman at last!"
She turned at that and faced Cleek smilingly. Then, with another courtesy, faced about, and with head uplifted went from the room with the crowd of chattering, shrieking things that had once been this man's comrades.
He smiled a little and twisted his head over in the direction of Mr. Narkom, whose fat body had found but poor comfort in the flat top of a table. The Superintendent's eyes met his. A sudden lurch of the ship, a sudden rushing noise as the sound of incoming water, made his face gray. La Fleurette Noire had indeed been scuttled, as Margot had said, and there was nothing for it but to wait—and pray.
"Cleek—my pal—my friend," he said shortly, between sobbing breaths, "it is I who have brought you to this. My God! if I could only have given my life for yours! Just for the chance, Lord, just for the chance!"
A mist swam up before Cleek's eyes, making the cabin swim. His voice, when he spoke, was as soft as a woman's.
"I know, I know, old chap," he gave back simply, smiling his whimsical smile. "But, as the fatalists say, 'What will be, will be,' and who are we to attempt to alter it? Anyway"—he smiled again—"it was in the Yard's call, Mr. Narkom, and in the Yard's service. We shall have—passed—in harness. Remember that."
His face was calm with the perfect tranquillity of a battle won. But in his heart the picture of Ailsa, with her dear hands outstretched and her dear eyes misted over with unshed tears, brought torture. He shut his eyes against it and breathed hard.
And all the time the rushing water brought melancholy music to their ears, and the long day wove itself into the woof of the afternoon, and the sun smiled on them through the cabin window with a sort of malicious delight.
Captain Kesteven talked constantly, telling anecdotes of his career with a pretty wit, while all the time one eye was fastened upon the porthole, and one ear listened for the nearer approach of those swirling, devastating waters.
Finally a silence dropped. Each man was thinking his own thoughts, thoughts that he would have died sooner than have repeated; and the slow swish-swish of the water was the only sound that broke the silence.
Then!
"Only a matter of—Dr—half an hour or so now, I should say, gentlemen," said the Captain somewhat unevenly, with his eyes glued upon the window.
Suddenly Cleek twitched up his head. His ears had caught the sound of something in the distance that sounded like the whisper of oars in the water.
Mr. Narkom looked round quickly; his position was hardly one conducive to much movement, but he managed to raise his head a little.
"A boat," he said shortly.
"A boat!" echoed the Captain in a hoarse voice.
Cleek looked at them.
"They're coming back, in 'all probability, to—Dr— hasten their handiwork. Hard luck to go like this, isn't it? Listen!"
There was the tramp of many feet upon the deck; the injured ship keeled over at the extra weight that was put upon her side, and a great cry went up echoing from one end of her to the other, calling forth other echoes; and at the sound of it, the three men looked at one another, and gave vent to three little choking, gurgling, half-hysterical laughs.
"English, by James!" shouted Mr. Narkom, hoarsely, kicking his feet in his abandonment of relief, so that the table he was strapped to tilted dangerously. And:
"English!" echoed Captain Kesteven, with a little gurgle of thankfulness. But Cleek said nothing; merely lay with his hands bound behind him to the chair-back, and his thankful eyes looking out over the great distance, with Ailsa in his heart and a silent "thank you" upon his lips.
And at that moment the cabin door came open with such force that it sent the handle grinding against the woodwork; came a stream of blue-coated, eager-faced sailors, with grim mouths and ready fingers, and before you could say "Jack Robinson" the three men found themselves free of their bonds and were led out on deck by the shouting crowd, to where, in the water below, a veritable colony of boats awaited them. La Fleurette Noire pitched dangerously, rolled, pitched again, and as the last man left her decks, plunged her black prow into the rolling, swirling, hungry waters, and took her black paint into the greater blackness below.
Mr. Narkom looked at Cleek, but Cleek was not noticing him. His eyes were set upon a slim, white-clad figure upon the quayside who was waving frantically.
It was Ailsa—even at this distance he could tell— Ailsa! So the good God had been merciful and spared them to each other. Then, being thus unnoticed, the Superintendent loudly blew his nose.
"That's the young lady, sir, that warned us. She saw those French beggars climbing on board, and guessed something was wrong," said one man respectfully, as he followed Cleek's eyes to the harbour. "They'd escaped, though, by the time we got the boat out. There must have been more of the French fishing smacks that came in the night."
Cleek smiled whimsically. So it was Ailsa who had saved them! He owed his life to her now; he had owed even more to her before. Ah! well, the debt was getting heavier than ever. As they landed he made his way straight to her and took her hand in his.
"We might have solved the greatest riddle of all, Ailsa, but for you," said he simply, looking down into the flower of her upturned face.
But she could make no answer, and for a brief moment a great silence held.
Life was before them yet—and who can tell?
THE journey back to London was a particularly quiet one. The occurrence on board the boat, La Fleurette Noire had shaken even Cleek's iron nerve, and Mr. Narkom himself was in a state bordering on collapse. Reaction from the acute danger to the peace of safety as they forged through the quiet country was almost overwhelming, and it was Ailsa who noticed the presence of their mutual enemy, Count Irma, as they steamed into Waterloo Station. She touched Cleek upon the arm, nodding quietly in his direction.
A queer smile looped up Cleek's mouth for a second.
"We are not fortunate, Ailsa mine, you should not have come back," he said softly. "I wonder if he is on the lookout for us, or if it is only chance."
Mr. Narkom gave a hasty sigh.
"It's my fault, Cleek," he blurted out ruefully. "I wired Lennard to meet us with the limousine, and in some mysterious manner he must have learned of it."
"Oho!" said Cleek with a strong rising inflection. "Well, it won't be the first time I have outflanked the enemy. Keep quiet, Mr. Narkom, and let every one get out. This train will probably be sided in one minute. There go the lights. Just as I thought." As the words left his lips, the winking electric in the carriage went out; the passengers were on the platform, making their way to the exit, or struggling with their luggage. No one gave a glance at the dark first-class compartment in which three silent figures sat like things of stone.
From a distance they watched Count Irma as he walked to and fro, evidently on the lookout for them. For some ten minutes he waited, until the empty train commenced slowly to puff its way into a siding; then, coming rapidly to the conclusion that he had been fooled, he turned upon his heel and swung swiftly out of the station.
It was fully a quarter of an hour later when the three descended from the carriage, and after a brief explanation to the guard accompanied by a magnanimous tip, they escaped into the crowded safety of the street.
Ailsa was soon borne westward to a new boarding house, where she passed as a lady traveller—a line which accounted satisfactorily for her sudden journeyings and odd times of going in or out.
Not even Count Irma himself could have recognized her as she passed out of the station doorway. Her fair hair was drawn back from her forehead in a tight knob, a mackintosh concealed her costume successfully, as well as adding bulk to her slim figure, and she wore Cleek's felt "Homburg" tugged down over her eyes. Even that gentleman himself could not refrain from laughing at sight of her.
"There'll be no home coming for me to-night, Mr. Narkom," said he with a rueful smile. "Nip round the station and see if Lennard has gone, for I'll have to borrow the use of your locker."
Mr. Narkom did "nip" round, and to such good purpose as to find the limousine with Lennard just crawling into the Waterloo Road. Five minutes later found Cleek safe in its depths.
"Down with the blinds, Mr. Narkom, and let's see what you can do for me. I'll go to the Regent for a week or so, and I look to you to keep young Dollops away, or else he'll be giving the show away. Ah, here's the very thing." He drew forth a military undress uniform, and in a very short space of time so completely transformed himself that even Mr. Narkom, well accustomed as he was to the powers of his famous ally, leaned back and gasped, "Cinnamon, Cleek, but it's a marvel, that's what it is!" he ejaculated. "I can't believe you're the same man that got in here just now."
"I'm not, my friend. That's where the point comes in. The art of acting lies in being who and what you actually represent. And now, I think, we part. Let me have a week's rest, old friend, if you can, but if the Yard needs me, very well. Now, as always, I am at the Yard's service—and yours."
His hand shot out, clasped that of Mr. Narkom with a grip that spoke volumes, and before the Superintendent could make so much as a sound, the door flashed open and flashed shut again, and Lennard whizzed away to the Embankment at a mile-a-minute clip.
"THANK Heaven!" ejaculated Superintendent Narkom, as he rushed up the steps of a certain house in a quiet street in London, and had his knock rewarded by the appearance of none other than the ubiquitous Dollops himself, who replied to his question that Cleek was at home. Without vouchsafing another word to the surprised cockney valet, he swept past the lad and was up the staircase and outside the study door before that faithful henchman could—to use his own words—say "Jack Robinson."
It was not often that Mr. Narkom ventured to approach the house thus openly and without adopting a disguise, and having knocked, he looked in rather apprehensively. But his face lost some of its anxiety, and he gave a sigh of ineffable relief, as he saw Cleek, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a big bowl of fibre and sand on one side of the table, and on the other a collection of bowls and glasses, while in the middle reposed a heap of somewhat grimy red and purple objects, the size of billiard balls, at the sight of which Mr. Narkom smiled ruefully, for in these he recognized his worst enemies.
Cleek glanced up from his labour of pressing down the fibre in one of the bowls, as the door opened to admit the Superintendent, and said cheerfully:
"Well, for once you have caught me idling, Mr. Narkom. I never even heard the sound of the limousine. Sit down. You look positively worried, dear friend."
"I am," admitted Narkom with a sigh. "I've been on pins and needles during this last hour, lest I might find you out of town, and I didn't dare stop to ring you or Dollops up on the 'phone, so—"
"Which means that you have not come straight from the Yard, eh?" struck in Cleek serenely. "A case, of course; that goes without saying. But where, when, and how?"
"You remember that beautiful girl I pointed out to you last week? I told you she had come up to London to buy her trousseau."
"Miss Cecile Jerningham, only daughter of Colonel Jerningham, the great aviation expert? Why, of course I do. One of the most beautiful débutantes of last season, and the living image, in a feminine way, of her father."
"Well, poor girl, she's dead," said Narkom grimly.
The hyacinth bulb slipped from Cleek's nerveless fingers, and rolled unheeded to the ground.
"Dead!" he echoed. "Cecile Jerningham! Heavens! Why? How? When?"
"Last night," said Mr. Narkom tersely. "Why, heaven alone knows, for she was absolutely in the best of health and spirits and looking forward to her marriage with a rich man. Still, young Trenton—"
"Trenton—Trenton! Who is he?" struck in Cleek sharply. "Wait one moment; is he any relation to Gerald Trenton, the brilliant young aviator, one of the first to win the King's prize for height records?"
"The identical person, and was as good as engaged to Miss Cecile, until Mr. Wilfred Harbridge, a rich Australian squatter, appeared on the scene and succeeded in capturing the heart of Miss Cecile; they were to have been married next week, as soon as the Colonel returned—"
"Returned?" echoed Cleek quickly. "I did not know Colonel Jerningham was out of England."
"Nor is he," replied the Superintendent. "But he was to have left for Paris to-day, with the plans of the new army aeroplane. Unfortunately, now that is impossible."
"Impossible? What do you mean?"
"Why, because those plans are missing, though there is no sign of any burglary or attempt made on the safe."
Cleek twitched up an inquiring eyebrow.
"Oho!" said he, with a strong rising inflection. "That accounts for the milk in the coconut, as they say. We might have known there was something else in the case."
"That, my dear chap, is where you are quite wrong. The one thing has nothing to do with the other. Miss Cecile never even knew the Colonel had the plans in his possession. He is not one to talk 'shop,' as perhaps you know, and certainly only one other person knew of their being in the house, and that was young Trenton, who, according to the Colonel, was to have flown in the first model made. So—"
"That puts him out of court, then."
"No. I don't attach much importance to their loss at present; certainly not to Trenton. It is the death that puzzles me. Trenton was known to be the last person to see her alive, and, what is more, my dear fellow, there must have been a bit of a storm between them, for one of the servants heard the young man's voice raised in anger, and the same servant was passing the boudoir door just a minute after Trenton flung himself out, his eyes flashing and his countenance crimson. She heard what he said distinctly:
"'Cecile,' he said, 'I shouldn't have thought such a thing possible from you! I'd rather see you dead first.
"Hum!" commented Cleek. "An unfortunate speech that, in face of subsequent events. I suppose the servant girl is to be believed? Or I suppose young Trenton was not responsible for his words, spoken probably in jealousy. In any case, the young lady seems to have led him on, and then engaged herself to the other man—and you say it would have been a love match?"
"On the man's side, certainly, judging from the way Harbridge is carrying on," said the Superintendent sadly. "But as to the lady, I cannot quite say. You see, Colonel Jerningham is not a rich man, though of the very highest integrity and honour; while Harbridge—"
"Is a millionaire? Any other member of the family alive?"
"Yes, her mother. But there's nothing coherent to be got from that poor lady," replied Mr. Narkom, shaking his head. "The shock has quite turned her brain. As a proof, you will readily believe me when I tell you that she declares that the murdered girl is not Cecile Jerningham, at all, but a stranger. So—"
Cleek swung round upon him like a flash.
"What's that? What's that?" he rapped out. "Not her own daughter! Do you mean to tell me there is any doubt of the dead girl's identity? That's something new in the chain."
"Not the slightest, Cleek. Haven't I told you, the shock has turned Mrs. Jerningham's brain. You can quite understand it. The girl says she has a headache—bids them all good-night about nine o'clock, but is heard talking to Gerald Trenton in the boudoir on the first floor ten minutes later. After which, no one sees her alive again. She is found dead, apparently from heart failure, for there is absolutely no blemish or mark on the body, in her bed, some six or eight hours later. (The room is next to her boudoir.)
"Just as luck would have it, I happened to be in the local police station at Croydon, on my way from Brighton, where Mrs. Narkom and the youngsters are staying. I had had a temporary break-down, but of course I went up to Ariel House (Colonel Jerningham's place, you know), and took the case in hand myself."
"Quite right," said Cleek absently, as the Superintendent stopped to take breath. "Had the Colonel discovered the loss of his plans at that time?"
"No. He never gave a thought to them, naturally. It was not till Mr. Gerald Trenton put in an appearance, which he did, at nine o'clock in the morning.
"I was on the point of leaving, and met him coming up the drive, and when I told him about the murder, he stared at me in a frightened sort of way, and murmured incoherently about his darling being dead, and something about some things being worse than death. His first question was as to whether anything had been missed. Well, I was so struck with his callousness that I turned back with him and was present when he rushed in to the Colonel and asked him whether everything was in the safe."
"H'm! Strange that he should ask. But what happened?"
"Well, naturally, Colonel Jerningham stared in surprise, but just to satisfy him, he examined the safe, as it stood there in the library. The plans were gone. There was a scene then, I can assure you, Cleek, for 'pon my soul, I think he was more upset about their loss that at the sight of that poor dead girl upstairs, though it sounds a cruel thing to say."
Cleek twitched up one corner of his mouth.
"And was nothing else missing?"
"No; at least, nothing of importance. The Colonel wouldn't say what other paper was gone. Just a private paper, he said."
"Does Mr. Harbridge know of the murder or not?"
"Oh, he knows. I had the task of telling him over the 'phone. And when he did come, he had a big bag, packed so that he could stay; and, Cleek, never do I want to listen to such grief as his again. It makes my blood turn cold. And he swears that Trenton is at the bottom of it; he swears, too, that he saw him lurking about in the grounds the last thing at night."
"What does young Trenton say to that? Has he any explanation?" asked Cleek sharply.
"Oh, yes, he has explanations," replied Narkom. "He says that he was so upset by his interview with the poor girl (though what it was they did quarrel about he refuses to tell) that he marched straight out of the house, and spent the rest of the night tramping about the country."
"H'm! And do you believe him?"
"Well, that would be difficult to say. Of course, he wouldn't admit the thing, even if he were guilty. Anyhow, it's unfortunate he can't establish an alibi, because he does admit that he didn't go to bed all night, and that no one heard him return to his father's house, some two or three miles away."
"Looks fishy enough, I grant you," said Cleek, pulling down his cuffs and flicking the dust from his coat sleeve. "I'll be able to tell you more, perhaps, when I've seen the young man for myself. As it is, I suppose you didn't mention my name?"
"Well, no," said the Superintendent hesitatingly. "I said I would try to get one of our smartest men—Inspector Boyce—"
"Boyce, eh? Well, let it stand; only give him ten minutes in which to wash off the arduous stains of toil, and he'll be with you, dear chap, in the winking of an eye."
AND he was with him in "the winking of an eye," and down the steps and into the limousine with Mr. Narkom panting behind, in the space of another.
A swift run of half an hour brought them at last to Colonel Jerningham's residence, an imposing building standing in extensive and well-ordered grounds; and here, in the great library which opened on to a wide marble terrace, the master of the house awaited their arrival.
Mr. Narkom's assertion that Colonel Jerningham was himself "nearly mad" had prepared Cleek to find an overwrought, half-distracted man. He found, instead, a pale-faced soldier, calm, yet alert, a man whose eyes showed traces of the storm and stress raging within his breast, yet at the same time ready and willing to give the officers of the law every assistance within his power.
"I suppose, Colonel," said Cleek in a casual, offhand sort of way, when he had learned that the plans were still missing, "you have no reason to believe that Mr. Gerald Trenton inadvertently let fall any information as to their being in your possession? It is just possible that he may have told some one, and entirely forgotten the matter."
"But, as it happens in this case," said the Colonel, "both his honour and his career are bound up in the success of this aeroplane, for he was to have been the first to fly it. He it was who begged me not to breathe a word, even to my wife, or Harbridge, my poor Cecile's fiancé, not that it would have been of any consequence to him, for he's a splendid fellow, one of the handsomest in the world, but without an idea in his head, outside of agricultural matters."
"Where are the young gentlemen, if I may ask, at the present moment?"
"Mr. Harbridge, I am glad to say, was persuaded to go and lie down, so that he might recover from the shock. But though I wanted Trenton to do the same, he, after vainly trying to get into Cecile's room (forgetting, I suppose, that Mr. Narkom had given strictest orders to the police to allow no one whatsoever to pass) flung himself out of the house." The Colonel sighed deeply.
Mr. Narkom gave Cleek a significant glance that said as plainly as words, "What more do you want?"
But Cleek merely looked non-committal, and noticed him not at all. Then:
"It seems strange that no one in the house heard a suspicious sound throughout the night, doesn't it?"
The Colonel fidgeted restlessly.
"Yes; it seems from what I can gather that every man and maid slept like logs; and as they complain of headaches, they obviously must have been drugged. Yet how or when it was administered heaven alone knows. For myself, I usually take a 'nightcap,' as we call it, just before retiring, and my wife and Cecile a glass of hot milk. These may have been drugged, but who could have done it, and for what object?"
Before Cleek could answer, however, the door was opened, and a young man strode into the room. He did not need the formally made introduction to tell him that this was the young aviator, Gerald Trenton, and as Cleek's eyes noted the drawn, haggard face, with its furtive eyes, the restless, twitching hands, he grew thoughtful.
The young man fairly threw himself at Cleek, who had assumed as usual that befogged expression of incompetence on being introduced to a stranger.
"Thank heaven you have come, Mr. Boyce," he said, his voice breaking with emotion. "Now perhaps you will let me go into her room—"
"Cecile's room!" echoed Colonel Jerningham. "Why should you want to go back? You saw her this morning as she lay—"
"Yes, sir," said Trenton, "but—but Oh, it's no use! I can remain silent no longer. It's those plans. Cecile did get them, after all. She must have."
Colonel Jerningham stared as if the young man had gone mad.
"Good heavens, Trenton, are you all mad in this house! Has the shock turned your brain? What did Cecile know about the plans, when not a soul knew but yourself?"
"She did know," declared the young man almost sullenly. "Because she asked me to get them so that she might look at them."
"What! Heavens, but this is inexplicable! I think I am going out of my senses."
"I've already gone out of mine!" responded Trenton harshly. But Cleek struck in upon him.
"Tell me," said he, "what time exactly did this occur? Perhaps you don't know?"
"As it happens, I do, to the minute," replied Trenton smoothly. "It was just nine o'clock (you remember that, Colonel?) when Cecile retired to her own apartment. You remember how we all laughed at her for going to bed like a naughty girl—"
"Yes, yes."
"Then Harbridge went up to pack," continued Trenton, moistening his dry lips, "and I went into the hall, to get my own things—"
"Pack?" interrupted Cleek, looking at him in surprise.
But it was Colonel Jerningham who answered the query.
"Mr. Harbridge had been staying with us for the week," he said quietly. "He went away only last night."
"All at once, I looked up," went on Trenton, "and there on the landing I saw Cecile. She beckoned to me, and up I went. She was unlike herself, and in for a bad cold, as she said herself. Her eyes were bright with fever, and with her pink cheeks and hoarse voice she quite frightened me. I begged her to let me send for a doctor, but she refused. All she wanted was one thing, and that was to have a look at those plans. I nearly had a fit when she said that, Colonel, as you told me you hadn't spoken a word about them.
"Neither had I."
"Well, of course I told her that was out of the question, and then—then she promised to give up Harbridge if I would just let her see those plans. It was only a foolish fancy she said, but she was determined, and said she would kill herself if she didn't have her way. I grew angry, and after telling her that she was behaving shamefully to try and tempt me to become traitor, I rushed away and out of the house. That was how I came to be walking about pretty well all night," he added apologetically. "I didn't know what to do, but I had made up my mind to come and tell you, when I met Mr. Narkom here. Then it was too late."
"Too late indeed!" groaned the unhappy father, and the young man buried his face in his hands. Cleek turned to the Colonel.
"I shall be able to tell you more after I have been upstairs myself," he said smoothly. "But where is Mr. Harbridge? I should like to see him. You said he was still here, I believe."
And shortly after Harbridge came. Under ordinary circumstances he must have been not only one of the handsomest of men, but one of Nature's own gentlemen. His eyes were blue and child-like, though now dimmed with unrestrained weeping.
At sight of Cleek, he stopped short.
"Ah, Mr. Boyce," he cried, as he shook hands warmly with that stolid gentleman. "I owe you a thousand apologies for not being present when you came."
"Don't mention it, sir," said Mr. Boyce bluntly. "Quite understand it. Well, gentlemen"—he turned to the other men—"I think I will go upstairs, if you have no objection."
"Certainly, certainly," responded the Colonel. "I will show you the way myself."
He passed out of the room, and in utter silence the three men ascended the staircase and reached the corridor, at the end of which stood a village constable on guard before the fateful room.
"All the bedrooms are along this corridor," explained the Colonel, as he noted Cleek's gaze wander from one side of the wall to the other. "That is Mr. Harbridge's room" (he motioned toward the first) "and that, on the other side of that linen cupboard, is my wife's. I do not want to disturb her if I can help it; it will only distress her still further."
"Quite right, sir," agreed Cleek warmly, following his host's example and walking on tiptoe.
Unfortunately, he was treading on the highly polished beeswaxed floor, instead of the centre strip of carpet, and the effect of standing on his toes can be readily imagined. Like a flash, the shiny floor rose up in front of him, and he came down with a heavy crash against Mr. Harbridge's door, sending it flying open. He picked himself up, rubbing his arm ruefully. "I'm a clumsy ass, Colonel. No, no, I haven't hurt myself. I only hope I haven't disturbed your good lady." He backed out into the corridor, leaving the Colonel, with a little frown on his face, to close the door again. But his hopes were not to be fulfilled, for as he turned, another door on the opposite side of the corridor opened like a flash, and there darted out a frail-looking, gray-haired old lady, who with a swift glance of fright at the figure of her husband, drew Cleek within the portal of her bedroom door. Her whole body was shaking and trembling with excitement, but her eyes were quite calm and sane.
"Thank heaven you have come!" she gasped. "You are the great detective Mr. Narkom promised us. You will discover the truth.. They think me mad, but I am not. I tell you that—that thing there"—she shuddered toward the end door—"that is not my darling. She is older. I tell you——" Her voice had risen shrill and quavering and its sound brought the Colonel racing across the passage.
"Nelly, Nelly!" he said soothingly, as if speaking to a child. "You must not delay these gentlemen. Come and he down, and sleep."
"No; no; it is no use, Hugh. I will not be treated like a lunatic. I am quite sane, I know—" She struggled pitifully to regain composure.
Cleek put a hand gently on the frail, bent shoulders.
"Dear Mrs. Jerningham," he said quietly, "believe me, I will do my best. We will find out the truth."
He turned and entered the room where the dead girl lay.
"Everything is just the same as they found it this morning, Cleek," said Mr. Narkom softly, as he closed the door. "See—her clothes—everything! Why, what is it?" He stopped, for Cleek was v sniffing the air vigorously.
"Funny smell of burn," he muttered, just as the Colonel himself entered softly behind him. "Ah! I see. The young lady evidently burned something: letters, perhaps; love letters, eh?" He crossed swiftly to the grate, wherein were the ashes of some heavy paper substance. "H'm! Not paper; it looks like parchment."
"Dear heaven! My plans!" groaned Colonel Jerningham, staggering into a chair, as Cleek knelt down and scrutinized the charred fragments.
Then, all at once, he gave a little lurch of his shoulders, jumped to his feet, and strode over to the bed. Very gently he turned down the white sheet.
He bent over the body of the young girl, and examined it minutely, pulling down the scarlet lips, and opening the clenched hands, in one of which was concealed a tiny scrap of paper.
But no one saw and no one knew save Mr. Narkom, and he held his peace. Then Cleek turned to him with a sharp upward movement of the head.
"You were right, Mr. Narkom," he said grimly; "it is a case of murder after all. Miss Jerningham was the victim of some foul assassin."
The sound of the ugly word brought the Colonel to his feet.
"Murder!" he gasped. "Mr. Boyce, how could she? What do you mean?"
"By the prick of some sharp instrument. See here, right at the back of the shoulder." He pointed to a tiny puncture, hardly to be seen without the aid of a glass. "No girl could possibly have inflicted that mark herself; some easier, more accessible spot would have been selected for suicide. A dagger, perhaps, or a pin; perchance our old friend the poison ring, specimens of which can be purchased as easily in the Tottenham. Court Road as in Italy itself." He turned aside sharply and walked away. Then he stopped short, and, catching hold of a white silk blouse which had fallen at the side of the bed, sniffed at it again and again.
"Colonel," he said in quick, staccato tones, "oblige my by taking this blouse in to Mrs. Jerningham and ask her whether she is absolutely certain to whom it belongs. It is just a whim of mine."
Colonel Jerningham obeyed, evidently bewildered; Cleek threw himself on his hands and knees and went sniffing round and round the room, like a terrier after a rat. Presently he rose, and inspected the contents of the dressing table, finally halting before another small white enamelled table, on which stood the dregs of a glass of milk. This, too, was smelled and cautiously tasted.
"Drugged! A ducat to a guinea but it's opium. I wonder." He prowled around restlessly, halting finally at the foot of the bed, on which lay a pile of things, evidently the clothes discarded by Miss Cecile on retiring for the night.
"The young lady was in a hurry, Mr. Narkom, and evidently undressed without the aid of a maid. See; here is the dress, the hooks nearly torn away, a string broken here, more lace; it almost looks as if they had been torn—"
"Gad! Cleek, it was the murderer who dragged them off," put in Mr. Narkom, an absolutely dazzling inspiration coming to him.
"H'm!" Cleek pinched up his chin, and stared fixedly at a chair beside the bed, on which lay a second heap of clothes, neatly folded, surmounted by black silk stockings and fight house slippers. "Something caused this lady to get up and dress herself again."
But before Cleek could continue, the Colonel was in the room.
"Yes, Mr. Boyce, this is my poor girl's; both her mother and the maid are absolutely sure. Is there anything else I can do?"
"Nothing, thank you, Colonel, except to wait for me in the library. I will not keep you long."
Again he was obeyed, and Mr. Narkom's heart began to beat hard as he saw his ally stand just in front of the wardrobe, his eyes narrowed down, his mouth set, and every nerve alert. An observer would have said that he was listening, but this was impossible.
All at once he threw his head back, a low laugh coming between his lips.
"Of all the mutton-headed fools!" he said softly. Then he advanced back to the bed again.
"Cleek, what is it? Tell me," asked the Superintendent. But his ally looked at him enigmatically.
"Two doesn't often go into one, old chap, and when it does, it leaves unpleasant consequences for some one. Go downstairs, like a good chap, and round up the other actors in this little drama. Give me half an hour, and if I haven't something surprising to show you, my name shall be Boyce till the end of the chapter."
HALF an hour's grace had been the time stipulated by Cleek, and Mr. Narkom had certainly done his part in "rounding up the actors in this drama," as his ally expressed it. Colonel Jerningham, grim and erect, sat on one side of the great marble fireplace in the library; Gerald Trenton sat on the other, under Mr. Narkom's watchful gaze; while up and down, like a tiger bereft of its prey, paced Wilfred Harbridge. The clock struck the half-hour, and still no sign of Cleek. At last Mr. Narkom, forgetting even his usual caution, volunteered to go upstairs and find him. One minute later he was back again, and in a state of violent excitement.
"I want you, Mr. Gerald Trenton. Come up and clear yourself if you can!" he exclaimed. Then he turned round on his heel to Mr. Harbridge, "Do you know that man Boyce has found evidence to hang him for murder twice over!"
A veritable volley of words greeted this assertion and the Australian would have literally hurled himself on the dumbfounded Trenton had not Mr. Narkom barred the way. The Colonel stared in speechless horror, but Trenton, after one gasp, seemed to recover his wits.
"What tomfoolery is this you are talking?" he cried fiercely. "Have you gone mad? What can that fool possibly have found? Is it a trick?"
"We've had enough of your tricks, young man," said the Superintendent sternly. "You are practically under arrest now, but my colleague has asked for you, and up you go."
"Oh, I'll go, quick enough. You can jolly well make your mind easy as to that," cried the young man hotly. "Come, Colonel, let's see what mare's nest this is."
He flung himself out of the room, followed by Colonel Jerningham, who needed no second invitation.
"I fear we shall want your help, Mr. Harbridge," said Mr. Narkom significantly. "He's a desperate character."
"I guessed it from the first," was the quick response.
One and all, they swept up that staircase, and down the long corridor, to that end room, and into the presence of Cleek. In such haste were they that it was not until they heard the click of the door behind them and the turn of the key in the lock that any one realized the presence of two of the village policemen, past whom they had walked unnoticed.
"That's right, my lads. Well played!" sang out Cleek from his position on the hearth rug. A screen had been drawn round the bed, and he crossed over to it. "All right, Mr. Narkom. Stand ready, please. Well, my clever young friend"—addressing Trenton—"you've played a pretty game, haven't you?"
"What do you mean? How dare you hint—"
"Well, something stronger than a hint, eh? You were told I had found something, weren't you? Like to know what I found? Well, then, you shall see."
He held up a thick, folded parchment.
"The plans!" gasped the young man, and the cry was echoed by the Colonel behind him.
"Yes, the plans," sneered Cleek. "And this is where I found them." He twitched one corner of the screen, and jerked it away; a cry of astonishment arose, for the bed was empty. But the cry was lost in a sudden tumult and uproar. Leaping as a cat does on a mouse, Cleek had flung himself full tilt upon the man Wilfred Harbridge, and had borne him backward to the floor, his knee on the fellow's stalwart breast. Then with the assistance of two policemen and Mr. Narkom he succeeded in manacling his arms and ankles, and while the astounded onlookers stood spellbound they heard a low cry of mingled triumph and pain, in the direction of the door. It had been unlocked and opened ever so silently; and in the aperture stood a dead girl brought to life—Cecile Jerningham herself, with her mother's arm encircling her slender waist. At the sight, unexpected even to Mr. Narkom himself, Trenton turned his dazed eyes to Cleek.
"In the name of heaven, Mr. Boyce, what does it mean?" he stammered, while Colonel Jerningham, his shaking arms by this time round his daughter's neck, lifted his head to echo that same question.
"It means that Miss Cecile has had a very narrow escape," said Cleek gravely, "and if she and Mrs. Jerningham will retire for a few minutes, I will dispose of this clever gentleman."
"But I don't understand!" cried Trenton. "Cecile, did you want the plans for him? Tell me!"
"Plans? What plans?" asked the girl in a puzzled tone, but keeping her eyes averted from the writhing, struggling figure on the floor.
"The plans you asked me for last night," said Trenton, "after you went upstairs."
"I never saw you last night at all," said the girl. "It was that brute who came to me. Ugh! To think I had meant to marry him!" She turned away, shuddering, and once more her mother's hand soothed the pale forehead.
"Come with me, darling, and let Mr. Cleek explain it all," said Mrs. Jerningham softly; and as she led her away the Colonel and Trenton turned upon Cleek in absolute amazement and incredulity.
"Cleek!" ejaculated the Colonel dully, and "Cleek!" echoed Trenton in the high-pitched voice of excitement.
But Cleek had turned toward the prostrate prisoner.
"A clever trick, Henry Hanrahan, or Heinrich Harnhelm, as the case may be, but I don't think your Secret Service will help you out of this scrape. What's that? Not your name? Oh, no, no, my friend. I am not blind, and I have a good memory for—spies. Do you remember '91, eh? Ah! I see you do. Besides, my friend, you shouldn't have removed that famous ring of yours. You might have known the mark would show—as it does." He swooped down on one of the manacled hands, and held it up. A ring of white showed against the tanned skin like the unsoiled square of wall paper when a picture is removed. "You've tried to throw the guilt upon Mr. Trenton here, but, like the pigeon, it's come home to roost.
"Well, take him away, lads, and see he doesn't escape you even now, for he's a ticklish customer when he's cornered, and this time it's a very tight corner indeed."
The policemen hardly waited for him to finish before they had laid willing hands on the man and hauled him off to his fate.
"But the doctor said my daughter was dead," said the Colonel, as the door closed.
"Some one's daughter is, Colonel Jerningham," said Cleek, almost sternly. "That is the worst of life: it always is the woman who pays, and sometimes twice over."
He swung on his heel, and advancing to the foot of the bed, twitched a silken cover from the couch, on which lay the figure of a girl, the very counterpart of the living girl who had just left the room.
"Cecile!" exclaimed Trenton, staggering toward the couch.
"No. Sidonie," said Cleek, his eyes fixed on the ashen face of the elder man; "daughter of Hertha Metz."
"Ah! dear heaven, but she died at her birth, with the mother," gasped Colonel Jerningham.
"Evidently not," said Cleek, "since there is no denying her likeness to her half-sister, both perfect images of their father, Colonel Jerningham, here. From what I can gather from Miss Cecile, my read-ing of the crime is this: Heinrich Harnhelm, to give him his real name, must have heard of these plans before they came into your possession, Colonel, and probably Sidonie, who was also in the Balkan Secret Service—"
"My little daughter a spy!" moaned Colonel Jerningham.
"Yes, a spy," answered Cleek. "Women do strange things when left to shift for themselves. The name on her passport, which I found, proclaimed her to be Sidonie Metz, so she evidently believed herself to have been wronged by you."
"Her mother was beneath me in station, and she ran away from me when I was attaché in Servia," said the Colonel, "and all I knew after that was that she died, and the child with her."
"Ah, well, I take it that she came here, with Harnhelm, and by collusion with him, after he had drugged Miss Cecile, in her boudoir, she took her half-sister's place, and tried first to get you to steal the plans, Mr. Trenton. Failing in that, she must have stolen the keys from you as you slept, Colonel, Harnhelm having drugged you all, including Miss Cecile. But with the plans she also found another document. You see, Colonel, I guessed right; you had lost something else, your first marriage certificate, though you were afraid to admit it to Mr. Narkom. Whether, when she saw her mother's wedding certificate, on parchment, as it was in the old days in Servia, she felt remorse, or meant to keep the plans for her own use, I cannot say. Anyhow, she concealed them in the same place as Harnhelm had placed Miss Cecile drugged and senseless—"
"Where was that?" came in chorus from his breathless listeners.
"In the wardrobe," was the quiet reply. "Probably Harnhelm returned, and when she refused to give them up, showing him the parchment certificate, he lost his temper, and shook her by the shoulder. His ring, which was the same old-time weapon that some of our dead 'heroes' used for executing their pleasant little assassinations, killed her instantly. Then he tore off her clothes, bundled her into bed, and made his escape, after burning that certificate in the grate. He meant you to think they were the plans. Unfortunately, he forgot one or two little things: one was the scrap of parchment left in his victim's hand; the other was the second pile of clothes, which Miss Cecile had left at the side of her bed. She says that she had already retired, when she heard the knock, and thinking it was her mother, went to the door. Harnhelm pushed a cloth over her mouth and drugged her then and there."
"The devil!" cried Trenton, leaping forward like a young lion at bay. "And to think how he might have won her for his wife!"
"But the aeroplane plans," broke in the Colonel. "Were they burned, too?"
"No," replied Cleek, "they were in Harnhelm's pocket, were they not, Mr. Narkom? Ah, yes, I thought so."
"But how did you discover this, Mr. Cleek?" asked the Colonel, his eyes still bent on the face of the dead girl.
"I thought it was strange if a mother didn't know her own child, Colonel," said Cleek quietly, "and when I found that the two sets of clothes had two different scents, I began to get suspicious. One was strongly saturated with hyacinth"—he looked over at Mr. Narkom and smiled—"the other bore traces of violet. Then came the charred fragments of the certificate, and the final discovery of Miss Cecile in the wardrobe settled the matter. All I had to do was to wait till her mother had restored her to composure, and trust to luck to catch the villain in his own trap, which I did, Mr. Trenton, by giving you a very bad quarter of an hour."
He stretched out his hand, which the young man seized with fervour.
"Invite me to the wedding later, dear fellow," said he smilingly.
Then, quite suddenly, he turned to the waiting Superintendent. "Mr. Narkom," he said, "time's short, and I've a lot to do. Our work here is done. Tell Lennard to crank up and be ready. Colonel, good-bye. Good-bye, Mr. Trenton, and God bless you and the dear girl who cares for you. Love's better than money, any day, and twice as lasting. And a loyal heart is better than both. Always remember that."
Then he swung upon his heel, picked up his hat and gloves, and went down and out into the winter sunshine to the Yard's duty and the Yard's eternal call.
THERE are times in the life of every man that stand above all others if only for their very peace; and for Cleek such was this month of June. For the world again was aflood with roses that made the air honey-sweet with their perfume, and taught one to forget all that was sorrowful, all that was sad, for the time being at least. Count Irma, reluctant and indignant, had returned to Maurevania, and for a time Cleek's life had drifted on aimlessly, unmolested, and secure. The Yard had been idle, at least, be it said, for the Yard; and he had found plenty of time to dwell in paradise, with Ailsa Lorne's hand to guide him and Ailsa Lorne's dear eyes reflecting his love.
Now, therefore, his home was a caravan, tethered at a discreet distance from the flower-filled cottage over which Mrs. Condiment reigned and watched for the return of her dear Cap'n Burbage; and his life passed peacefully as a summer's day.
But it was too good to last. For duty, like the avenging angel, and in the person of Mr. Narkom, overtook him, whizzing countryward in the old limousine, with Lennard at the helm, and the Yard very much indeed to the fore.
"This is about it, Lennard," said the Superintendent, as they turned into a long lane, green-edged with hedges like fur on a lady's frock. "Keep a sharp lookout. He must be found, whatever happens, or those devils will get him as sure as eggs is eggs. Slower, now, and I'll hunt him myself."
He leaped from the car, plunging straightway into a leafy lane, and came at last to a corner from which he could see Cleek, the one being in the world he loved and looked up to, and the slim, straight figure of a woman standing beside him and looking out, with his eyes, upon a sun-kissed, heaven-blessed world. The Superintendent frowned and looked away.
"It's too bad," he muttered, "to have to bother him, but he'll be safer with me now that those Apaches and Maurevanians are after him again. So, Narkom, my boy, pull yourself together and be brave."
He advanced swiftly, yet not so swiftly but that Cleek noted the coming of him, and went to him with outstretched hand and a warm smile.
"Sorry, old chap, to have to disturb your holiday," said the Superintendent apologetically, taking Ailsa's hand and looking down into her face with appealing eyes. "But I'm in the very devil of a hole, and I want you to help me out of it."
"A change of work is as good as a holiday sometimes," interposed Ailsa, with a little nod of understanding, "and I can see that Mr. Narkom has a specially interesting case. Go and break the news to poor Dollops, dear, and I'll keep Mr. Narkom entertained until you get back."
Cleek twitched up his shoulders, and threw out his hands, and, turning upon his heel with a little laugh, went back to the caravan and disappeared inside it.
Then the Superintendent turned to Ailsa.
"It isn't only a case, Miss Lorne," said he with a pucker between his brows, "but those devils are after him again; they're buzzing like hornets over the capture of their pet, Rosillon, and I have learned, too, through secret channels, that Count Irma is again on his track, so he'll be best with the Yard to guard him. You may safely trust him to me."
Ailsa smiled. There was a mist of tears in her eyes.
"Indeed, I do, Mr. Narkom," she said earnestly, "and with none better. But to be so uncertain of his safety again—"
There was no fear in her face, only sorrow and understanding, and her eyes were moist.
Later, Cleek said good-bye to her tenderly, and entered the old limousine once more, sighing a little at the parting; but if he saw the quick look of interrogation that passed between Mr. Narkom and Len-nard, he thought best to ignore it.
"You're a regular old body snatcher," he said softly, turning to the Superintendent with a queer little smile, as the limousine bounded forward and went ripping off into the distance like a thing possessed.
Mr. Narkom at once swung into his story, and soon the car lurched round a corner, bringing into view a gypsy encampment. A coil of smoke curled upward into the still air, while round and about it a group of rough-looking men lay stretched on the grass, enjoying their noon-day meal.
At sight of them Cleek gave vent to a little exclamation.
"Dollars to ducats," said he, "those chaps are Apaches. I know the cut of them too well to be mistaken. They're coming this way, Mr. Narkom, so it's good-bye to your humble."
And sure enough, they were coming "this way," for the whole crowd of them suddenly surrounded the car, chattering like magpies.
"Cinnamon! but you're right, old chap!" broke out Mr. Narkom excitedly, as he put his head out of the window and looked at them. "Beastliest crowd I ever saw! I say—"
He turned to face an empty seat, for Cleek was no longer there. Like a shadow he had slipped out, and only the door slightly ajar showed where he had gone.
"Nipped it, by James!" muttered the Superintendent, with a little gasp of admiration. "Slow down, Lennard, and let's see what the beggars want. Hold their attention as long as you can, to give him time to escape."
Further speech was rendered impossible by the rush of the erstwhile gypsies; and, despite Mr. Narkom's imperfect knowledge of French, he gathered that they had recognized the limousine, and guessed that Cleek would return in it. They resisted all his efforts and threats and piled into the car, searching every nook and cranny with a true knowledge of the "Vanishing Cracksman" and the "Vanishing Cracksman's" ways.
Finally they fell back, and, followed by scowls and curses, Narkom was allowed to proceed, the gang hurrying at full speed in the opposite direction. The Superintendent laughed softly.
"By the time they reach the caravan, the police will be in possession," he muttered. "Now, I wonder what that amazing beggar did with himself?"
He looked out anxiously; only the waving cornfields were to be seen, and in the midst of one an old scarecrow, its rags waving to the summer wind, the stick which served as an arm pointing to the blue sky above. One rook, braver than his fellows, perched jauntily on the old silk hat, but, with a squawk of fear, fled forthwith as the scarecrow dropped swiftly to the ground, and, creeping through the corn, came out at the precise moment that the Superintendent signalled Lennard to slow down.
"My dear, dear chap," cried Mr. Narkom, as the door flashed open and flashed shut again, and the car leaped forward once more like a mad thing, "that was a close shave. Full speed ahead, Lennard, my lad," this through the tube.
"That," said Cleek, straightening his cuffs, "was the Rosillon gang, and I suppose Maurevania will be found in the offing." He gave a curious little lopsided smile. "Years ago they drove me out by force, and now they think to drive me back in the same way. Bah! Come, Mr. Narkom, what is this case of yours—murder, robbery, or what?"
The Superintendent mopped his forehead, then his eye fit up. With the magic word "case" Mr. Narkom was himself again.
"It's this way," said the Superintendent, "Lady Brasker is the person in question, and the discovery that the family jewels have been stolen was made yesterday morning when—"
"Hold on a minute!" interposed Cleek. "Sorry to interrupt you, but it's as well to know something about your company before you start your play. Lady Brasker, eh? Isn't that the charming young lady who, as Maisie Grey, played leading lady at the Triviality Theatre, and after breaking the hearts of nearly half the young sprigs of nobility six months ago, married Sir George Brasker, the head of one of England's oldest families?"
"That's the lady, yes," replied Narkom. "She is really young, too, and quite as pretty as her postcard photographs, though that has nothing to do with it. The thing that does count is that Sir George Brasker rode to hounds last week; coming back, his horse shied at a fence; and later, Sir George was discovered with his neck broken, while a riderless horse found its way home."
"I see, I see!" broke in Cleek, pinching up his chin. "Leaving his young widow broken-hearted, I suppose?"
Mr. Narkom coughed almost apologetically.
"Well, I wouldn't like to say as much as that. It seems to me as if she is more angry at having to give up the family diamonds after only once wearing them than anything else. I'm taking you to her now, to Bassington Combe, here in Surrey. It is she who has put the case in my hands. Combe Manor is the name of the estate, and I shouldn't be surprised if her ladyship has found the place a bit of a change after the boards."
"I suppose she has filled it up with old friends, eh?" said Cleek quietly. "Cecile Clanes and Belle Brahams, and one or two others of that ilk. Am I wrong?"
"For once you are, my friend. There is only her chaperon, Mrs. Crustin, a most estimable lady, and Captain Willmott."
"Hallo, hallo!" rapped out Cleek, sitting up very straight. "Any relation to that Captain Willmott who had to send in his resignation at the time of the spy scare at Portsmouth?"
"The same man. But, my dear fellow, it was a trumped-up case all through. Don't you remember they proved that he had absolutely nothing to do with the matter, and even offered him his step over the heads of his senior officers?"
"H'm, yes," said Cleek reflectively. "A burned child dreads the fire, they say. Well, go on. So the worthy captain is staying there, with one eye on the lady, I suppose, and the other on—well, never mind."
The Superintendent nodded.
"Well, yes," he said reflectively, "I don't deny that there's every chance of her ladyship shortly becoming plain Mrs. Willmott, though plain she never will be. But there are still some people who say she ought to have left Combe Manor directly the heir arrived."
"And who is he?"
"Mr. Edward Brasker, now Sir Edward, of course, a nephew of Sir George and a recluse and bookworm. In fact, he looks like a blind mole dragged out of his hiding-place underground, and he refuses to let Lady Brasker move. He wants her to stay and keep up the honour of the name while he goes back to his books.
"Oho!" commented Cleek softly; "an obliging heir, that. Newly made heirs are not generally so disinterested and kind. No chance of any son and heir coming to Lady Brasker, eh?"
"Not the slightest! And though she will be the mistress of the house just the same, it will be by his courtesy instead of a right, so I don't wonder if the lady does feel a little bitter; and now the loss of the jewels will cause trouble with the other executors, who have already treated her very summarily, as they resented a chorus girl being introduced on the family escutcheon of the Braskers. And that, my dear Cleek, brings me to the actual case at last.
"Amongst those jewels there is a certain superb necklace of rubies, said to have once lodged in an Indian temple; the stones are of colossal value, and have caused so much trouble that they have won the name of—"
"The Tears of Blood," supplied Cleek with a quick smile. "Gad! Why didn't I recollect the things before? I remember now, they were stolen from one of the shrines of Kali, in India, at the time of the Calcutta insurrection under the East India Company. The necklace changed hands many times, bringing tears and bloodshed, till at last it was bought by Sir George Brasker's grandfather and included as one of the heirlooms."
Mr. Narkom drew a deep breath and shook his head in mute admiration.
"There's no getting to the end of your knowledge of jewels," he said at length, ignoring Cleek's sudden, crooked smile. "Well, anyway, the 'Tears' have vanished; they've been dried up or washed away somehow; and Lady Brasker is nearly mad with despair. It seems she had them sent down along with some others to wear at the Hunt Ball the day before Sir George's accident. All the jewels are kept in the strong room of the London and Eastern Counties Bank, and they were all brought down intact by special messenger, and verified by Sir George himself. Lady Brasker wore them on the night of the ball, and locked them up in her own jewel case preparatory to sending them back the next day. Of course, with the excitement of Sir George's death, the jewels were forgotten."
"Gad!" interposed Cleek quickly, "it begins to look exciting. Well, when did her careless ladyship find out her loss?"
"Yesterday morning. At least, she remembered them then, while she was dressing. The case was opened in her presence and that of her maid, Bennett."
"H'm! A risky thing to do," said Cleek quietly, stroking his chin.
"Oh; but this maid has been with the family for years; in fact, she's almost an heirloom herself. Anyway, the jewels were there safe and sound, and the case relocked, and placed back in the drawer. Lady Brasker herself took away the keys, together with the one that fitted the bedroom door, until Sir Edward was ready."
"And what, may I ask, had Sir Edward got to do with it?"
"A great deal. He had promised to take the jewels up to town himself that very day. As one of the executors he was responsible, you see, and he thought it would be less risky if he were to take them than to send them by post."
Cleek nodded several times in succession. Then he smoked for a second in silence.
"So I should think," said he finally. "But one minute, please. Where was Captain Willmott all this time? Anywhere near the lady of his dreams?"
"No. He'd gone up to town immediately after the funeral; but he returned yesterday, and is staying at the village inn. The whole thing can be put into a nutshell. After breakfast, when Sir Edward was ready, her ladyship went upstairs, and, opening the locked door, drawer, and jewel case, found the 'Tears of Blood' vanished. Now, what I want to know is, how it was done. I can't believe Lady Brasker herself has anything to do with it. Her agony of mind is too great to be simply acting."
"Even though she did act in melodrama at the old Olympic, I think," said Cleek musingly. "Well, well, it's no use crying 'thief till you've caught him with his hand in your pocket; so I think Mr. George Headland will take a look into things, always providing you haven't mentioned my name beforehand?"
Mr. Narkom gave vent to a deep sigh of relief. His face cleared.
"No, not I," said he enthusiastically. "You're a fine chap, Cleek; a fine chap. Always come when you're wanted. Hallo! Here we are at Bassington. Drive right in Lennard, as fast as you can. That's it."
And with a lurch and a jar the limousine swung round swiftly and went spinning up the long drive to Combe Manor and into one of the strangest cases Cleek had ever handled.
IT was still early in the afternoon when the limousine stopped at the foot of the broad flight of steps that led up to the Manor where, framed in the open doorway, a slender figure, clad in widow's mourning, awaited impatiently the approach of Scotland Yard, as personified by Mr. Maverick Narkom and the stolid, heavy-faced individual who slouched clumsily in his wake, and was introduced as "Mr. George Headland, one of our smartest men, Your Ladyship."
The little lady was painfully agitated, and she shook like an aspen leaf as, scarcely waiting for them to be seated, she addressed herself altogether to Mr. Narkom.
"Oh, Mr. Narkom," she broke forth excitedly, her little white hands fluttering in her lap like twin doves, "I thought you were never coming back. I am nearly mad! It's a plot, I tell you, a wicked plot to bring me to ruin—and I verily believe Sir Edward is at the bottom of it!"
"Sir Edward? My dear Lady Brasker, you mustn't say that! Why, bless my soul—"
She clasped her hands and breathed hard.
"Yes, yes, I know," she interposed breathlessly, "it sounds incredible, but more things have since disappeared: two rings now, in just the same mysterious way; and I believe he hates me, and is trying to get the jewels for his books."
"Jewels for his books?" murmured Cleek interrogatively.
"Yes. He has the covers of them encrusted with jewels. He has never been able to afford many before, but now that he is the heir, I believe he means to use every one of the family jewels for that purpose." She fairly ground her teeth upon her lower lip, and her voice took up a note of hatred. "Oh, he pretends to be very sympathetic and all that, but I'm certain he is plotting against me, Mr. Narkom. Mr. Headland"—she turned to him, hands outstretched, and with tears in her eyes, looking like a very Niobe in the depths of her distress—"for heaven's sake help me to defeat him, to keep up the honour of my dead husband's name!"
Mr. Narkom held up his hand. His face expressed polite reproof.
"Come, come, Your Ladyship," said he briskly, "you've got no proof, have you? No actual proof, I mean."
"Proof? No, but I am sure! Aunt Crustie says the same."
Cleek raised inquiring eyebrows.
"She is the only friend, besides Captain Willmott, I have in all the world," put in her ladyship in answer to his silent inquiry. "She was with me on my last engagement, and, poor old thing, she has been with me ever since. I don't care what they say; they all laughed at her, the Braskers, I mean; and she may be old and dowdy, but her heart's in the right place, and that's something, I tell you."
The door came softly open, and a tiny, wizened-up little woman, clad in rusty black, with a strange concoction of lace and violet ribbon bows upon her white hair, came quietly into the room.
It did not need her delighted cry of "Oh, Aunt Crustin!" to tell Cleek that this was Mrs. Crustin, and as his eye swept over the quaint old figure he smiled involuntarily. An old-fashioned curtsey acknowledged the introduction; then she sank down into one of the low chairs, and presently the click-click of knitting needles and the soft drone of "two purl, two plain, slip one, knit one, draw the slipped stitch, one," told them that she was in the throes of that feminine puzzle, a stocking, and oblivious to the rest of the world in consequence.
Cleek rose blunderingly to his feet, and, drawing out an immense notebook, much to the Superintendent's surprise, began writing hurriedly in it.
"I think, My Lady," he began, speaking with a strong cockney accent, "I'll see the good gentleman for myself, and the room wot them jewels was taken from, if you don't mind."
"Certainly." Lady Brasker looked at him in a sort of disgusted assent. "Come along, Crustie, let's go upstairs again."
She crossed over to the old lady and took her by the arm. "This gentleman wants to see the room, dear."
Mrs. Crustin looked from one to the other, then laboriously rose to her feet and followed up the staircase, her needles still clicking diligently and her wool bag hanging on her arm. Outside a door on the upper landing Lady Brasker stopped short.
"This is the library," she whispered. "We shall find Sir Edward here. I don't suppose he's spent more than an hour out of the place since he came to the Manor." She knocked on the door, and, turning the handle, went in. Cleek and Mr. Narkom saw in the dim interior of the room the figure of the newly made Baronet, bending low over a big book, the cover of which was encrusted with dull-blue turquoises.
He looked up at the sound of the opening door, and peered at them over his spectacles, blinking like an owl brought into a strong light. But he was not alone. Another man stood at his side, and at the sight of him Lady Brasker gave vent to a little cry of amazement.
"Gerald! I did not know you had come back." She turned, reddening confusedly, and made the necessary introductions. Cleek's keen eyes surveyed the newcomer, a handsome, military-looking man, even though they appeared not to do so.
"Splendid force, the police!" the Captain ejaculated noisily as they all trooped upstairs and into the bedroom. "If you want to know the time, eh, Bobby?" He dug his elbow into Cleek's side with apparent amiability.
"I'm glad you've come to the rescue, Mr. Headland," murmured the Baronet uneasily, looking at the Captain with ill-concealed distress. "Both Lady Brasker and I feel that this mysterious state of things must end. But of course it's the publicity that will be the hardest to bear."
Cleek scratched his head stupidly.
"Publicity, Sir Edward?" said he, raising his eyebrows. "What do you mean by that?"
Sir Edward lowered his voice, so that none but they two could hear. The others had moved farther into the room and they stood alone.
"Why," said he softly, nodding in Lady Brasker's direction, "if you can't frighten her into yielding them up, the other executors will prosecute her, no matter what I say. D'you see?"
He put his fingers up and rubbed the side of his nose vigorously. "You leave it to me, Sir Edward."
By this time Lady Brasker had unlocked the drawers and the jewel case, showing it as it stood intact without so much as a scratch on its steel surface.
"It's so inexplicable," she muttered over and over again as Cleek and Mr. Narkom surveyed it. "No, it's no use looking at the windows," for Cleek's gaze had wandered there instinctively, "they were all closed and bolted, weren't they, Crustie?"
"They was indeed, dearie," assented the old lady with a vigorous shaking of her white curls.
"H'm-m, I see. Well, supposing you tell me at what time you discovered that the jewels were missing, Lady Brasker, and I'll just jot down a few notes."
Cleek pulled out the huge notebook again, and tentatively sucked the point of his pencil, looking for all the world the veritable "bobby" that Captain Willmott had designated him. "At what time did you first see the necklace?"
"I remembered it while I was dressing," said Lady Brasker, eying him with almost a smile of amusement, "about eleven o'clock. I had had a very bad night, and I slept on till Aunt Crustie came and brought me a cup of tea. She's always so thoughtful of me, dear old thing. Well, then, I don't know what made me think of it—Oh, yes, I do! Crustie was telling me all about your jewelled books." She turned suddenly on Sir Edward Brasker, who appeared just a little confused by her unmeditated attack. "She said you had told her all about them yourself."
"Er—yes—I suppose I did," stammered Sir Edward self-consciously. "It's my hobby, you know." He turned round to Narkom with raised brows.
"Yes. Well, then I said, 'Oh, Crustie, the necklace!'" continued her ladyship after a slight pause. "Just like that, interrupting her in the middle; didn't I, dear? And she said, naturally, 'What necklace?' You see, poor dear George had forbidden me to use that particular necklace, so I had not shown it to anybody—except—I mean— anybody—"
She stopped short, biting her lip in apparent vexation.
"Well, I made Crustie get my keys from my bag, and she unlocked the drawer of that dressing chest and lifted the jewel case on to the dressing table. Then I gave her the key and she unlocked the case itself and lifted up the necklace, saying, 'Is this it?' Bennett (that's my maid who's been in the Braskers' service since she was born, I think) saw it, and I saw it. Aunt Crustie put it back again just as carefully as possible, locked it all up once more, and I myself locked the bedroom door and took the keys downstairs with me. When I came up after lunch to fetch the necklace for Sir Edward, it was gone!"
"Anything else besides the necklace gone?" put in Cleek, looking up at the gaily painted frieze of rose-garlanded cupids as if he expected the necklace to drop down on top of them.
"Yes, two rings; I only missed them this afternoon, so—"
"Well," said Cleek, as if struck with a brilliant idea, "it seems to me that some one has got a duplicate key." He walked up and down the room, pinching up his chin. Suddenly he stooped and picked up a little crumpled ball of paper, and, standing still, he smoothed it out idly. "Yes, that's it, My Lady," he said; "some one's got a duplicate key. Strikes me it's a clear case of the servants; one of them's had a key made, hoping to nick off something." He gaped round, as if expecting a burst of applause for this, and Captain Willmott shrugged his shoulders with a look of disgust.
"Of course you had them all searched, eh?"
"Yes, indeed, and nice and insulted they were, too! Called me all sorts of impertinent names. Still, I insisted upon it, and Sir Edward supported me, didn't you?"
"Yes, yes, of course; quite unnecessary, still, it was the right thing, I suppose," muttered his lordship in a low, incoherent tone. "But there's no sign of the jewels anywhere."
"That settles it, then." Cleek looked, if possible, even more stupid than he had done up to the present. "Strikes me it must have been some one from London, then. I'll make a few inquiries in the village, suspicious characters, don't yer know; and by the way"—he swung round suddenly on Captain Willmott—"I suppose, sir, you'll be able to prove that you were in London all the time, eh? Just as a matter of form."
His whole expression was one of such direct accusation that it was no wonder that the Captain flared up like a lighted match put to a bonfire.
"How dare you, sir!" he broke forth, crimsoning and pulling himself up very straight. "I've stood a good deal, but if you're insinuating that I have had a hand in this wretched business, I—I—"
Then Lady Brasker, whose face, too, had reflected outraged dignity and a certain crimsoning anger, interposed with:
"Sir, if this is your idea of helping, I will stop the case at once and take the consequence of the loss! To insult my guest and friend, who was not even in the house at the time! It is monstrous! Unheard of! Appalling!"
Cleek looked from one to the other in injured innocence. "I didn't mean any harm," he said bluntly, pulling a wry face, "but, you see, if it isn't the servants and it isn't any one from outside, it looks precious much as though it were some one inside, doesn't it? Still, I'm only too willing to apologize for havin' given any offence, so to speak. And I don't see as there's anything more to be got here, so with Your Ladyship's permission I'll go down to the inn and think it over."
He touched his forehead clumsily, and shambled out of the room, followed by Narkom, who stared at his great ally in blank amazement. But once outside in the limousine and under cover of its closed windows, he burst forth.
"My dear chap, what did you want to act the fool like that for?" he said with a little sniff of displeasure. "The Captain's got 'em, of course, but you needn't have put him on his guard like that. Of course, I know you've got your methods, and I'm not one to quarrel with 'em, but—"
Cleek smiled and smoothed out the torn pieces of paper he had picked up, and laid them upon Mr. Narkom's knee.
"Might be," he said softly, smiling his queer little one-sided smile, "but I'd like you to go and see what sort of rubies those were that Sir Edward was evidently sending to London the day before yesterday. And you might hurry up Dollops. I'll stay at the inn (what's the name of it? Oh, 'The Hen and Chickens') till you come back."
The door flashed open and flashed shut again, leaving Mr. Narkom gazing at the torn, crumpled paper, which read:
"Sending... setting... Gask... Pritch... rubies... encrusting. Brasker."
"Cinnamon!" ejaculated the Superintendent excitedly; "the beggar must have dropped the pieces while he was taking out the rubies. Good Lord! What fools some of these collectors are! Who in the name of goodness would have thought it!"
CLEEK was up at the Manor after sending a lengthy telegram to Scotland Yard, a little after ten o'clock the next morning, and before an hour had passed away he may be said to have driven the whole household to desperation. Lady Brasker was turned out of her bedroom by his enthusiasm to measure up the room, for, having once questioned the servants and seen over their possessions, to their increased indignation, he had evinced the belief that the jewels were hidden in the room itself, and he therefore spent no little time in it.
At last, having driven Sir Edward to his library, and seen Lady Brasker and the Captain safely ensconced in one of the conservatories, with Mrs. Crustin deep in one corner, knitting as for dear life, Cleek slouched out into the grounds. It was at the lodge gates, some two hours later, that the limousine, dashing up at full speed, found him engaged in teaching the lodgekeeper's wife how to graft roses. At the sight of Mr. Narkom, who alighted with most dejected mien, he straightened himself and walked up the carriage drive.
"Well?" said he blandly when they had passed out of hearing.
"Well? It isn't well this time, old chap," replied Mr. Narkom, dabbing at the top of his bald head with a silk handkerchief, a sure sign that he was disturbed. "Regular wild goose chase. The rubies were little pin-point stones, to illumine some letters, and the box hadn't been opened; the head of the firm (Gaskell and Pritchatt it was) undid the seals and showed them to me, and what on earth you wanted Hammond and Petrie down here for I can't imagine. I called in at the Yard, of course, and just got your wire in time. They're in the limousine now, waiting for instructions."
"Good," said Cleek with a little purr of satisfaction. "We'll have them up at once, and then the lot of us will go and pay our respects to her little ladyship immediately."
He gave vent to a long, low whistle, and at the sound of it the limousine door swung open and Petrie and Hammond came out. There was a short, whispered conclave, and then the tiny brigade swung round and filed slowly up to the house.
Outside the drawing room door Cleek was joined by Sir Edward, who frowned rather deeply and pursed up his lips when he saw him.
"Back again, Mr. Headland?" said he without enthusiasm. "Got a fresh clue, perhaps, or going to throw the case up?"
"Yes, Sir Edward." Cleek's face was dully inscrutable. "I think that's what I shall do. I want to see her ladyship first, though."
He opened the door and, with Sir Edward, entered the great room. The windows stood open, and in one corner sat Lady Brasker, still talking earnestly with Captain Willmott, while in the other, Aunt Crustie was evidently puzzling how to wind the fresh hanks of wool which lay on the floor.
"I usually do it on two chairs," she explained plaintively to Cleek, as he crossed over the room and stood beside her; "but these drawing room ones are so knobby and unreasonable."
"Oh, I'll help you, Mrs. Crustin," Cleek put in amiably. "You hold, and I'll wind."
"Splendid force, the police," quoted the captain softly as Mrs. Crustin thrust out her shaky little hands. The wool went gently over them, she smiled and nodded into Cleek's pleasing countenance, then like the flash of shot ripping out from the gun's mouth came the sound of approaching footsteps, the scuffle of feet, and in the French window opposite appeared the fat, podgy form of Mr. Narkom, who had approached through the conservatory in time to hear Cleek's voice saying triumphantly:
"Got you, my beauty! Got you, Madame Marise! Got you, got you, got you!" Like a pouncing cat, he had gripped the wrists sheathed in the wool, while he old woman struggled and writhed and screamed. 'Quick, Mr. Narkom, sharp, boys! At last, at last!
A sharp click-click and the soft, shaking old hands were sheathed in steel, the bracelets were on, and to the startled watchers' amazement two policemen took up their guard beside her. Cleek's face was glorified, triumphant; he clapped his hands and breathed hard.
"Watch her, Hammond, and you, Petrie," said he with a little nod at the two constables; "she's artful as the devil, and as dangerous."
"How dare you! Oh, how dare you! It's a lie, a he!" shrieked Mrs. Crustin, and Lady Brasker in one voice, as her ladyship flung herself upon the struggling figure and tried to release her.
"You fool! You brute to treat an old woman like that! As if Aunt Crustie would steal my jewels! It's impossible, I tell you, impossible!"
"Unfortunately no, Lady Brasker," put in Cleek smoothly, and in the sudden change of his voice, the sudden cultured note that had crept into it, she sent her startled eyes up into his face.
"Who are you?" she gasped. "Who are you?"
"Cleek," said that gentleman, softly, in answer; "just Cleek of Scotland Yard, Lady Brasker, and proud to have done the Yard a good service in ridding London of one of its wickedest, most malicious thieves. Oh, yes, I know your sleight-of-hand tricks, madame," he said blandly to the writhing, shrieking woman, who glared up at him with baleful, devilish eyes. "Unfortunately for you, I happened to recognize that scar on your wrist. Remember cutting it in the old 'Twisted Arm' days? People don't knit scarlet stockings nowadays, especially when the wool matches the colour of rubies so exactly as that.
"The placing of that little ball of torn papers just beside the dressing case was also a mistake, as it wasn't likely Sir Edward would be so careless. Still—" he turned to the Superintendent and smiled into that gentleman's amazed countenance—"I had to make sure, and though I might have spared you a journey, Mr. Narkom, I was glad to get more men down, for I want to catch the whole gang this time, and I don't doubt that they are somewhere near.
"But first, let's have the jewels." He made a grab at the black repp wool bag on the old lady's wrist, and as he did so she broke into a low chuckle of vicious laughter.
With a little snarl of disappointment, Cleek tore it open, and pulled roughly at the single ball of scarlet wool that it contained, but, though he squeezed and unravelled it, there was evidently nothing concealed.
"Done, curse you!" yelled the woman in an ecstasy of delight at sight of his angry countenance. Her white wig had fallen off in the struggle, and her gray wisps of hair fell over her evil-looking face. "You've lost the jewels; your precious 'Tears of Blood' will shine no more!" She turned to Lady Brasker. "We have not worked for six months for nothing. I came to you directly we knew Brasker was in love with you, and this is the first chance I have had of securing that necklace; but I have done my work!"
Cleek stood stock still, his lips twitching. He was evidently working under some strong emotion, for his face was pale and his eyes brilliant.
Came suddenly a buzz of voices outside in the corridor, and in another minute Ailsa Lorne, pale and panic-stricken, fairly ran into the room.
"Forgive me," she said brokenly. "You are Lady Brasker. I know; forgive my intrusion like this, but oh! it is so important." She turned to Cleek. "It is Dollops, dear Dollops. He has been stolen in the night, carried away after you had gone, and the caravan was raided. They've got him, the Apaches have got him, for I found this scrap of paper crumpled upon the floor!" She drew from her handbag a tiny, crumpled piece of paper, and Cleek seized upon it instantly. It read, in a scrawling, unformed calligraphy:
"Blooming Apaches... Miss Ailsa save him.... Dollops."
A low chuckle broke from Marise, and Cleek switched round suddenly and surveyed her.
"You know where he is?" he rapped out sharply, seizing her by the shoulder and shaking her as a terrier shakes a rat. "Well, you'll tell me, or I'll know the reason why. In five minutes," he said grimly.
"He's at the Hollies," she snarled furiously, fairly quivering with hate. "But they'll kill him, Cracksman, immediately they set eyes upon you. There is Rossillon to be avenged, and a hundred others, and Margot is with them."
"Margot! Good God!" Cleek's eyes went up into Mr. Narkom's face and his lips tightened.
The woman gave vent to a harsh cackle of laughter.
"That made you jump, did it? Aye, and Margot is hotter on your trail than any of us."
"Be still." Cleek's hand went up for silence. "I'll get the boy back, come what may. Sir Edward, I take it that The Hollies is that large red house on the left-hand side as you enter the village, isn't it? Ah, thanks. What's that, Captain? No, I don't want any help, thanks. I'll go alone."
He snatched up the white wig and fitted it on his head, then he turned to Ailsa.
"I want that skirt and blouse," he said, pointing to the recumbent figure, "and her regular outdoor rig-out. Give me five minutes, and I think I can surprise you."
He darted across the room and whipped out a screen from against the wall, from which vantage point he was able to reach out a hand for the garments. A few minutes passed; then Lady Brasker gave a little gasp of surprise, while even Mr. Narkom, who was accustomed to the ways of his famous ally, uttered a sigh of genuine admiration. For, to all appearance, it was once more the dowdy little white-haired lady who trotted across the room.
"Keep a tight watch over your prisoner, boys," she said, with Cleek's voice and Cleek's note of command in it. "And you, Mr. Narkom, come on to The Hollies in half an hour. With God's help I mean to rescue that boy, and perhaps complete my task."
Ten minutes later he stood on the steps outside the door of The Hollies, and timidly rang the bell.
The door was opened gingerly by a villainous-looking individual, with the face of a cut-throat and a three days' growth of beard to add to it. He peered suspiciously into Cleek's face.
"The password!" he said in a low voice.
Cleek shrugged his shoulders.
"Dost thou refuse entrance to Marise, fool?" he said, in Madame Marise's voice and with Madame Marise's identical manner.
"But yes, if the password comes not. Give it, and you shall enter."
For answer Cleek sprang with the swiftness of a tiger and wound his fingers about the man's throat.
"God!" he whispered, between shut teeth, "I know you, Merode; I know you. I've not forgotten those old days when you and your brother Gaston fought me for supremacy. Dog that you are, I'm going to kill you where you stand, if you don't tell me where you have hidden the boy. Know me, eh?" as the man's eyes went wide with terrified recognition. "Yes, it's the Cracksman, it's Cleek, and he means what he says, curse you! Answer me, or I'll throttle the life out of you. Where is the boy?"
"I'll see you in blazes first!" Merode spluttered in a broken thread of a voice, and as he spoke he fell back against a chair and sent it spinning like a top down the passage.
Instantly there was pandemonium.
A door leading from the basement was flung noisily open, crashing heavily against the wall; then there came a clatter of rushing feet, and a hoarse-throated voice shrieked out of the stillness: "Come on, come on; there's something wrong!" And Cleek had just time to twist himself free of the panting, gasping thing that had seized him, and to dodge behind the shadow of a long, hanging portiere that flanked the hallway, before a dozen Apaches came tumbling noisily into the hall.
"Merode!" shouted one, as he saw the gasping figure. "Merode! Name of a devil, what is it?"
"The Cracksman!" gave back Merode brokenly; "he is somewhere within! Find him, shoot him, kill him if you can, but bring him back to me so that I may stamp upon him with my heel!"
"The Cracksman!" They screamed the words in a frenzy of anger. "Where is he? Where? Where?"
But almost before the words were uttered a fist like a hammer shot out from behind the curtain, caught the leader of the gang, who stood near it, full in the face, and sent him crashing down like a ninepin, as something like a flash of moving colour swept madly past him.
"Here!" shouted back Cleek over his shoulder, as he raced past them, doubling and twisting in his tracks like a fox in front of the hounds. On he went, on, on, on, out through the heavy door, which cut off the basement from the rest of the house, and banged it sharply behind him. A click of the bolt told them that it was locked.
Then, hampered by the skirts, he fled down the steps, writhed his features once more into a semblance of Madame Marise's, and passed into a room which must have been, when the house was occupied, the servants' parlour.
Obviously no sound of the scuffle had reached here, for there was only one figure at the table, and that was Margot; while in one corner by the window, trussed up as tightly as a caught fowl, his black eyes despairing and his face pale with anger, lay Dollops, staring up at the ceiling.
Margot raised her head and looked at the seeming Madame Marise with a little impatient sigh. "Soul of me, but you have been a long time coming, Marise!" she said in the sharp-edged voice of impatience. "Any more pretty things hidden in the wool bag, eh? Ah, but that was a splendid idea of thine. Nom du diable! a splendid idea!" She laughed shrilly, tossing a great scarlet bale of wool up in her fingers and catching it again. "The rest of us are somewhere in the house; it matters not. But thou dost deserve a drink for thy pains. Here, take this." She slopped out a tiny glass of greenish liquid and pushed it across the table. "Drink it up, mother, and it will make thy dreams rosy. Eh, what is that? A-h-h!"
"Drink it up, mother, and it will make
thy dreams rosy. Eh, what is that? A-h-h!"
For Cleek had pounced suddenly upon her and gripped his fingers about her throat, cramming a handkerchief into her mouth. She struggled furiously, like a trapped tiger; he seized a piece of rope that lay near to Dollops and bound her to the table with it.
Then he bent down and looked a moment into her face. "If they should ask who has done this," said he in a low, tense voice, "tell them it is the Cracksman, and they will understand. What's that, Dollops? Yes, coming, my lad."
He whipped out his knife, passed over to the corner where Dollops lay, and cut the ropes that bound him.
The boy rose and stretched himself. He was like a flash of lightning for speed. Quick as thought he led the way through a door that passed into the coal cellar, but from above which showed a round patch of blue sky through a manhole in the roof of it.
Passing the table, Cleek snatched up the ball of red wool and ran his fingers through it. An answering hardness in the centre brought a smile to his lips. He rushed after Dollops. But none too soon. For even as the door closed behind them and they stood in the narrow confines of the coal cellar, came a babel of voices, a scurry of frenzied footsteps, and Merode and his followers appeared in the breakfast room.
"They've found her," whispered Dollops, as they climbed up and wormed their way through the manhole, "and they're howling like mad things. Quick, sir! quick!"
For the door had been suddenly crashed in with a blow that sent the echoes chasing each other over the great house, and Merode appeared in the rudely made doorway. He rushed up after Cleek had wormed his way through the narrow hole. As his head appeared over the top, Mr. Narkom laid a hand upon his shoulder and pulled him through the aperture, and a veritable posse of police surrounded him.
"Played, my lads, played!" cried Cleek's voice exultingly. Instantly, like the cry of a shot bird, Merode's voice went up in warning to those others below, even as the crowd above closed round him and Mr. Narkom snapped the bracelets on his wrists.
"Now then, boys, surround the house and we'll have the lot of them caught like rats in a trap! Quick, or they'll get away from you yet. Sharp, there! Don't hesitate! Don't wait!" shouted Cleek.
They needed no second bidding. Like a pack of hungry wolves they surged up through the front door and swarmed over the house.
Ten minutes later they were in the presence of an anxious little group who had been waiting for them.
Ailsa ran forward with outstretched hands, her eyes were shining, her face was transfigured.
"You succeeded! Thank God, you succeeded!" she cried exultantly, as Cleek took her hands in his and gave them a tender little squeeze.
"Yes, I succeeded, thanks to you," he said softly; "and I have also finished my task. See!" He fumbled in his coat pocket for the little black repp bag. "Catch, Lady Brasker. Unwind the wool and see the pretty treasure inside. And take care of little old ladies who—knit! There! Got it back safe and sound, thank goodness, and none the worse for its little jaunt, either."
He took the chain of rubies from Lady Brasker's outstretched hand and ran them through his fingers.
"Tears of Blood," he quoted softly. "'Tears of Blood,' and yet another adventure to be added to your chain. Tears this time, true, but no blood. Thank God, that has been spared you. There, Lady Brasker, there are your rubies. Beautiful, no doubt, but if I were a woman, I wouldn't wear them for a king's ransom. So be glad that you can give them up into some one else's keeping, and that neither the 'tears' nor yet the 'blood' will ever again relate to you. Come, Ailsa." He held out his hand; she grasped it lovingly.
"I see Mr. Narkom coming up the path, and I must be off. Got 'em, Mr. Narkom? Well done! Well done!... But no Margot? Ah, well! At least the trump card was ours. Good-night, my friends, and good-bye. The riddle is solved, and I am going back once more to the peace and quiet of a caravan holiday."
And so he left them and passed on and out, with Ailsa by his side; Dollops, faithful, adoring Dollops, behind; and his best friend, Mr. Narkom, in front—a bodyguard a king might envy.
And he smiled as he passed down the wide staircase.
IN the silence that is born of complete understanding, they passed down the drive, hedged on both sides with flowering shrubs and great, swaying branches of trees. So intent, in fact, upon their own happiness were they, that for once Cleek's ears were not sharpened to the sounds that lay about him. He was with Ailsa and that was enough.
Even Mr. Narkom, following at some distance with Dollops, rested content in the knowledge of an excellent capture.
It was Ailsa who saw, and, seeing, pointed into a clump of thick shrubs, from which appeared the head of a woman, with the late sunlight picking out, like silver, the thing that was in her hand.
"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she cried out suddenly, and flung herself before Cleek, with a little sob of anguish and terror. He turned instantly, but it was too late.
The little shining thing spat forth a jet of fire; came the sound of a shot, the zip of a bullet singing in the still air, and as the word "Margot!" left his lips, Ailsa fell forward at his feet with a whispering breath, and lay very, very still.
For a moment he made no move, uttered no sound, simply stood there, unable to realize the appalling, awful thing that had happened. Then, with a choked-up cry of unutterable horror, he fell to his knees beside her.
"Ailsa! O my God, Ailsa!"
He caught her in his arms, rocking her to and fro in a sort of mute anguish, like a mother whose child has passed into the silence of the great Beyond. The sweat stood out upon his forehead in great beads, his face was twisted and dreadful to look upon.
Mr. Narkom fairly bounded forward.
"Miss Lorne! My God! And she saved you, Cleek! Not dead? Not dead?"
"God knows," gave back Cleek in a wrung, tense voice, as he bent over the still figure and placed a shaking hand upon her heart. "No, not dead. But failing fast. A carriage, Mr. Narkom, and a doctor, for the love of heaven! O Ailsa, my dear, my dear! To think that this should be the end of our happiness, the finish of our dreams! And I would have given my soul to save you!"
He looked up suddenly at the sound of sobbing, and looking, saw Dollops with one arm thrown up across his eyes and his shoulders heaving, crying as though his very heart would break.
The boy was beside him in an instant, his lips pressed against the dark cloth of Cleek's sleeve.
"If it might have been me, guv'nor; if only it might have been me!" he sobbed out in a heart-wrung, desolate voice. "To 'ave given my life for yer, that's wot I've always wanted! But that they should 'ave took the one thing wot yer loved! Gawd! But I'll make 'em pay for it, if it tykes a lifetime. Awl right, guv'nor, I'm going now, and I'll 'ave a doctor here in a brace of shakes. So bear up, sir, bear up!"
Cleek tried to smile, and failed utterly. And in "a brace of shakes" a doctor did come, summoned to the spot by the sound of the bullet, and, seeing Ailsa's still form lying in Cleek's arms, he dropped upon his knees beside it, and laid his ear against her heart.
Cleek watched his face with anguished, fear-haunted eyes. It was grave, grim.
Finally, his tense lips formed themselves into two words, and the shadow of a voice came from between them.
"Any hope?"
The doctor hesitated. The wound lay just above the heart; two inches farther, and he might have answered "No" to that question, if a greater power had not settled it beforehand. The blood was flowing freely, staining the white frock crimson, and forming an ugly, sticky pool beside her on the ground. Then he put back his head.
"Perhaps, but the loss of blood has been tremendous. It will mean loss of strength and resistance as well. If we can staunch it—"
"We must staunch it!" Cleek was beside him in a moment, his hands outstretched to stay the flow with his fingers. "We shall staunch it! Good God, doctor, if you knew what she meant to me! Ailsa, my dear, my life! Don't go from me! Don't drag me back again into the mire of despair from which you saved me. Ailsa—Ailsa! My God! My God!"
It was a heart cry, wrung from the depths of his tortured soul. Even the doctor's eyes filled. Rarely had he come upon such love as this, and the sight of it sent him silent, wondering.
Then he shut his lips together, and got slowly to his feet. There was a new resolution in his action.
"Brandy!" he snapped out quickly. Cleek tendered his flask. He slopped a spoonful of it between her blue lips. "That's right. Hold back the blood. Hello! there, boy, sprint off to the hospital at the bottom of this road and fetch a stretcher and a couple of nurses. Say it's Doctor Harmon, and tell them to come at once. Gad! but I believe she's coming round!"
And for a moment it seemed true, that she was "coming round," for a slight breath stirred her limp body, like a whisper, so faint it was, and was gone. But it had been a breath nevertheless.
Cleek's face whitened with the strain of it.
"Let her five, doctor, and you shall have everything I possess! Only let her five!"
"I'll do all I can, man. For the love of humanity, nothing else. Hello! who's this? Stretcher coming?"
But it was Mr. Narkom—Mr. Narkom, with the plump face of him dough white and splotchy—and a little cavalcade of nurses and stretcher bearers behind him.
"Brought them from the hospital; had a devil of a job to find it. Any hope, dear chap?" panted that gentleman, excitedly, in a wrung, terror-filled voice.
Cleek's eyes sought his face. He saw the anguish in them, and blew his nose upon a voluminous silk handkerchief.
"Yes, but slight. It is in the hands of God, dear friend."
"Then God will be kind," gave back the Superintendent quietly, with his hand upon Cleek's shoulder. "Come. They are carrying her off, Cleek, carrying her away, dear pal, and you will wish to follow. But if I could have saved you this."
"I know, I know!" responded Cleek in a toneless voice. "You, Dollops, myself, we would all have died for her. But it was not to be. Come with me, dear friend, as far as the hospital. I need your support; I am such a poor, broken stick now. Where's the old Cleek, eh? To do and dare? Gone! Zip! Like that! And that it should have been Margot, Margot! The devil she is! Ailsa! Ailsa!"
He droned on, like a man demented, and Mr. Narkom walked in silence beside him. There were tears in the Superintendent's eyes. Silently he waved away the group of anxious enquirers that followed in their wake. Lady Brasker and the gallant Captain first among them. It was Cleek's hour of torture, and he would see that he bore it alone. Only Dollops, returning when he found the stretcher had already been summoned and had gone; only Dollops might see his master's grief, and he because he held so great a portion of his master's heart.
The "Tears of Blood!" Cleek had triumphed too soon. The fateful jewels had exacted their due once more, and it was Ailsa who had paid the price!
They reached the hospital at last, and were shown into a little, bare waiting-room, while the doctors and the nurses and the stretcher bearers, with their precious burden, passed on to a private ward, where the case might be looked into and thoroughly examined.
Mr. Narkom sat by Cleek, very close, very still, his hand upon Cleek's arm, his face pain-wrought, full of silent sympathy, while Dollops, faithful henchman that he was, dropped to the ground at his master's feet, and crouched there, a little huddled heap of clothing, with wide eyes, tear-wet still, and his great love for the man shining upon his thin, cockney countenance.
And between them, like a graven image, making no move, uttering no sound, sat Cleek himself, watching, with tight-pressed lips and tortured eyes, how the little clock upon the mantelshelf ticked off the minutes, until such time as they could tell him if life had conquered in the great battle which was being fought out there in the peaceful ward.
Hell? He had served his time, surely, in this hour of waiting through which he was passing. What hell could be greater than this? What heaven more perfect than the news that she would live? His hands, tight shut together in a vise-like grip, worked spasmodically over each other; his face was a gray mask of pain. The nerve in his temple throbbed and thumped a ceaseless tattoo which his heart echoed.
"Ailsa! Ailsa!" He did not know he spoke aloud; rather it was his soul that was calling to her throughout the dim distances. "For God's sake, live, live! Ailsa, my dear, my dear!"
The Superintendent's hand tightened upon his arm; he sent his pale eyes up into Cleek's face in a sort of mute sympathy that knows no words. Dollops swallowed a sob.
And just then, when the moments seemed too long, the waiting an unendurable agony, the door opened and Doctor Harmon came in.
Cleek got to his feet slowly, swaying a little like a drunken man, and tried to speak. But there was no voice left. His hands went out, shaking, afraid.
The doctor bowed his head.
"Yes," he said quietly to the unspoken question; "she will live, sir, but only if strength can be found for her to make up for the extreme loss of blood. The bullet struck a main artery, and the flow has been almost abnormal. Fresh blood must be pumped into her veins. The trouble lies in how to find some one willing—"
Like a shot Dollops was upon his feet, his hand clasping Cleek's arm, his face pale, exultant.
"Let me, guv'nor, for Gawd's syke let me give it to 'er!" he said in a low, excited voice. "It's little enough to do for yer, sir, after all wot yer've done fer me! But it's summink. An' that's all I arsk. I'm—I'm a full-blooded cove, guv'nor, and strong as a young colt. And I'd be so glad, I would, I would. Yer'll let me, won't yer, sir? Please!"
Cleek looked at him a moment and swallowed something in the back of his throat. The blessed young beggar! Why, the boy would willingly give his life if need be, that he knew. But there should be none who could make this sacrifice but himself.
He started to speak, but Mr. Narkom silenced him, his podgy face working with difficult emotion.
"Cleek, dear chap, dear friend," he said in the short sharp sentences of a man's heart-words, "it should be for me your oldest friend to offer, boy. And after all you've done for me. Doctor, I will come at once, if you will show me the way. But to be able to help you, Cleek—really—"
His voice trailed off into silence, and he let the rest of the sentence go by default, merely stood there, shifting from one foot to the other like an eager schoolboy, very red about the face, very willing, his eyes filled with unshamed tears.
For a moment Cleek made no answer, simply stood looking at these two—his friends, his pals—who were willing to make the sacrifice for him, willing to give their life-blood for the woman he loved, because they loved him and would stand by him to the end.
And Ailsa would live! Ah, it was a taste of heaven indeed!
He sniffed suddenly, whipped a hand across his eyes to wipe the mist from them, and then put out a hand to each.
"Mr. Narkom, Dollops! Were there ever two such loyal friends?" he said in a broken, heaven-born voice. "That I should live to know it, like this! God! it is worth going through hell for, just to acquire the knowledge. But the sacrifice is mine, and I claim it. Ailsa must owe her life to none but me; I am selfish enough to desire that, and to know that I can give but a portion of mine in exchange for hers! Thank you, thank you a thousand times. I understand and I appreciate. But it is I who must claim the honour. Doctor, whenever you're ready. You have won a man's deepest gratitude. I can say nothing else, for there is nothing else to say."
Then, with a smile at each of them, the two faithful ones who would have suffered so gladly for him, and with eyes alight with the promise and joy of the future that was to be, Cleek passed on and out toward the peaceful, sun-drenched ward.
For he was going to prove his love at last—going to prove it by the means of such a simple thing—and when the future came, and she had recovered again, well, it was to him now that she would really owe her life.
And what greater happiness, after all, than that?
So it was with head erect, and heart singing, and eyes alight that he passed on to the spot where the one dear woman lay, and made ready for the sacrifice.
IT was September—beautiful, golden, amber-hued September—with roses ablow, blossom-sweet, heavy with perfume, a very paradise for the nature-lover and the artist!
And in a sense Cleek was both. To-day Ailsa had left the hospital for good and all, said good-bye to the white-capped nurses who had grown to love her in the time she was with them, bade adieu to Doctor Harmon and his confrères, and was returning once more to the cottage by the river and the quiet peace of the pleasant Thames Valley.
A fortnight there for rest, and then—after that— Cleek's thoughts dared not go further. Sufficient for the moment was the happiness thereof; he would not probe into the joy of the future, there was time enough for that. To-day was enough for his soul's needs. For Ailsa was well, Ailsa had recovered, and —she owed her life to him. It was enough to send any ordinary man daft with happiness.
He passed from one rose bush to the other, running his fingers over the petals, with a sort of caressing movement that was always his when his flowers were the thing in mind at the moment. Already Ailsa's lap was filled with the beauty of them. He snipped off a perfect "Lyons" and tossed it lightly upon the tumbled heap of colour that she already held.
"Perfect, eh, Ailsa mine?" he said in his deep, full voice, with a little laugh of pure happiness underlying it. "And to be back again among them like this! Gad! but the world's a glorious place to-day, made perfect by the sunlight of one dear woman's smile. And to have you here, well and strong and bonny again."
He went to her and stood a moment looking down at her with his heart in his reverent eyes.
She gave vent to a happy laugh, and reached up her arms to him, twining them about his neck as he knelt, and pillowing her fair head against his breast.
"Oh, but it is heaven, this, king of my heart!" she said softly, smoothing his back hair with her soft fingers. "And the future, dear, the future that is ahead of us."
"Paradise indeed!"
Their lips met and held; all heaven was in the kiss. Then, like a deriding Nemesis, they heard Dollop's voice calling out across the garden, and sprang apart like guilty conspirators caught in the act.
Dollops, faithful henchman, darted conveniently behind a rose bush and waited his time. Then he issued forth seeing nothing but the buds and the birds and the trees, and waved a paper hi his hand until such time as Cleek would come down sufficiently enough to earth to look at it.
Which Cleek very promptly did. Then he noted Dollops's joyful countenance, and snatched the paper from the lad's hands.
"What's up your sleeve, youngster?" he said with a happy, care-free laugh, as the boy giggled and winked at Ailsa like a good-natured hyena. "Somebody left you a legacy, or what? Out with it."
Dollops giggled again. Then his face became suddenly serious.
"About the best legacy that any one could leave me, guv'nor," he ejaculated excitedly. "Read what the pyper says, sir; read abaht it, and then join me in a lark down at the 'Pig and Whistle' wiv the drinks on me! It's the best bit o' news I've 'ad in a cat's age. Maurevanian Revolution, sir; declared a republic, wiv that there blessed Count Hirma as 'ead of the Cabinet! 'Ow's that f Dr a choice little tit-bit, eh? No more fear from them bloomin' chatterin' monkeys nowadays, Mr. Cleek, fer the 'ole lot of 'em 'as got a president now wot'll keep 'em in order, I 'opes, and leave a law-abidin' citizen of the peace alone!"
He suddenly stopped speaking, at sight of Cleek's face, and sucked in his breath with a queer little hissing sound. For there was sorrow stamped upon his master's features and a great, deep-rooted regret. Maurevania a republic, Maurevania under the rule of a president, chosen from the people, and elected by them! Maurevania, who had always been so proud of its despotic monarchy! The thing had an element of sadness in it, even though the relief was great.
Then his hand went out and touched Cleek's arm, and his voice, shaken, afraid, broke in upon the silence that had fallen about them.
"Yer don't care that much, do yer, guv'nor? Gawd's trufe, if yer do, I'll step across the ocean and see what I can do myself fer annuwer blessed king ter put in yer place. But them sorts is better wiv a republic, yer know, sir, they is truly."
"Yes, Dollops, 'them sorts is better wiv a republic,' as you say," gave back Cleek quietly in a slow, dreamy voice. "But, my country! My country! To think you should have come to this—and all because of me! Poor Irma! Poor, faithful friend of a country's throne, this must indeed be your most bitter hour. And so the dream is ended. Come, Dollops, shake hands. From this day forward, I am a private country gentleman, with no unpleasant royal relations. That is one comfort, anyway. Ailsa!" He turned upon his heel and went toward her, a smile upon his lips, a lingering regret in his eyes. Perhaps he had dreamed, who knows, that some day Maurevania might call to him, and, calling, take him back, with Ailsa as his Queen, to the land that had held his heart ever since that day, so many years ago, when he had been driven out of it.
And now the dream was ended, over. He reached out his hands to her, and drew a deep, heart-wrung sigh.
"Our throne is gone, dear, vanished into the Never, Never Land, and Maurevania has taken a president to her fickle bosom instead."
"Dearest, and you will be safe now!"
"Safe as the proverbial houses—and as uninteresting, I expect!" he retorted with a light laugh. "But it is better so. From now onward I shall give myself to the Yard, and the Yard's duty. We must call up Mr. Narkom, and break the news to him. He will be relieved, poor chap, for he carries his responsibilities heavily, and he counts me chief among them! Dollops, get on to Scotland Yard, and say I wish to speak to the Superintendent. That's right; nip off, now, there's a good fellow. Ailsa!" He reached out his arms to her, and she came to him, head up, eyes alight, all the love for him shining in her fair, sweet face. "Ailsa mine! I have no throne to offer, no kingdom save that which you may find in my heart. But it is a truer one than Maurevania's, that I can promise you. You will be content, dear?"
For answer she looked up at him, and laid her arms about his neck, kissing him full upon the lips.
"You have given me the greatest kingdom of all, for you have given me your love, dear," she said.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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